"E) 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 


University  of  Illinois  Library 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/mybohemiandaysin00pric_1 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 
IN  PARIS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 
IN  LONDON 

Illustrated  with  32  Drawings  made 
specially  for  the  Volume. 


I’OIMU.MI'  OK  mi;  .U’TIIOK  IN  lSS(l  KUOM  A KAINTINA'. 
I?V  SOI.OMON  J.  S(^I.(mON,  U.A. 


MY  BOHEMIAN 
DAYS  IN  PARIS 


BY 

JULIUS  M.  PRICE 

AUTHOR  OF  “ DAME  FASHION,”  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
AND  WITH  A FRONTISPIECE  PORTRAIT  FROM  A 
PAINTING  BY  SOLOMON  J.  SOLOMON,  R.A. 


PHILADELPHIA 
DAVID  McKAY,  Publisher 

604-8  SOUTH  WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


ALEXANDRE 


THOMAS 


A toi,  mon  vieil  ami,  je  dedis  ces  souvenirs  des  beaux  jours  de 
notre  jeunesse;  tu  y retrouveras,  mon  cher  Alexandre,  ces  parents  si 
tendrement  aimes  auxquelsje  crois  n’avoir  jamais  assez  temoign^ 
ma  profonde  reconnaissance. 


Julius  M.  Price 


PREFACE 


Although  the  number  of  books  on  Bohemian 
life  of  Paris  is  practically  legion,  I feel  that  I 
owe  no  apology  for  venturing  to  add  to  the  list 
with  my  own  humble  effort;  inasmuch  as  what  I 
have  attempted  to  narrate  pertains  entirely  to  my 
own  individual  experience  during  the  years  I 
spent  as  a student  in  the  Ville  Lumiere.  Qui 
s’excuse  s’accuse — is  undoubtedly  a true  axiom, 
but  in  this  instance  my  plea  will,  I hope,  be 
accepted,  if  only  on  this  ground.  In  this  volume  I 
have  recorded  the  lighter  side  of  the  life  of  a 
student  in  Paris  in  the  ’eighties,  as  I knew  it;  and 
although  I cannot  lay  claim  to  have  made  any 
special  discoveries  or  new  features  I feel  that 
perhaps  by  reason  of  my  souvenirs  being  almost 
entirely  personal  they  may  therefore  present,  now 
and  again,  novel  aspects  of  the  life  in  the  Quartier. 
The  student  world  of  Paris  has  always  exercised 
a curious  fascination  in  the  imagination  of  even 
the  most  staid  of  writers.  This  charm  would  be 
inexplicable  were  it  not  for  the  knowledge  that, 
underlying  its  most  tempestuous  moods,  there 
exists  a substratum  of  genuine  human  nature  that 


PREFACE 

effaces,  to  a great  extent,  the  impression  conveyed 
by  its  outward  free-and-easy  characteristics.  Be- 
hind all  the  frivolity  and  levity  of  the  etudiant  in 
Paris  there  is  a camaraderie  and  esprit  de  corps 
which  goes  far,  not  only  towards  inducing 

enthusiasm  for  one’s  work,  but  also  in  bringing 
out  the  best  qualities  of  manhood.  More  water 
has  passed  under  the  bridges  than  I care  to  realise 
since  as  a student  I entered  the  atelier  of 

G6rome,  but  the  memory  of  those  halcyon  days 
still  remains : when  one’s  whole  life  was  summed 
up  in  a determination  to  do  one’s  utmost  to 

achieve  fame,  coincident  with  a deep  affection  for 
one’s  Alma  Mater.  Men  may  come  and  men  may 
go  but  the  Quartier  Latin  goes  on  almost 

unchanged  outwardly,  for  most  of  the  old  land- 
marks still  exist — in  fact,  one  fancies  that  one  sees 
the  same  faces,  so  much  does  each  generation  of 
students  resemble  the  preceding  one.  The  old 
well-known  cafes  are  still  crowded  of  an  evening, 
and  life  goes  on,  year  in,  year  out,  in  the  same 
happy  state  of  insouciance  as  it  did  in  days  gone 
by.  It  is  with  mixed  feelings  of  pleasure  and 
sadness  that  one  revisits  the  haunts  of  one’s 
youth.  One  is  concerned  at  the  thought  of  how 
many  of  those  gay,  light-hearted  boys  whom  one 
knew  in  the  atelier  have  fallen  on  the  road,  or 
gone  under  in  the  struggle  for  existence  in  the 
most  precarious  and  fickle  of  all  the  professions. 

Although  outwardly  the  Ecole  presents  the 
viii 


PREFACfi 

same  appearance,  one  finds  that  a great  innovation 
has  come  about,  for  female  students  are  now 
admitted,  and  a special  atelier  has  been  opened 
and  reserved  for  their  sole  use.  This  is  a great 
concession,  and  one  of  the  surest  signs  of  the 
advance  of  the  times.  At  present  there  are  fewer 
English  and  American  students  in  the  painter*s 
studios  than  formerly,  this  being  in  all  probability 
due  to  the  fact  that  the  two  most  popular  maitres, 
G6rome  and  Cabanal,  have  passed  away.  More- 
over, of  late  years,  many  other  public  studios, 
under  the  direction  of  celebrated  men,  have 
been  opened  in  different  parts  of  Paris.  At  most 
of  these  a fee  is  made  for  attendance,  but  this 
is  generally  almost  nominal.  Many  foreign 
students,  therefore,  already  well  grounded  in  the 
initial  stage  of  their  art,  prefer  to  go  direct  to 
one  of  these  private  ateliers  to  waiting  for  admis- 
sion to  the  Ecole  itself.  In  spite,  however,  of 
these  changes,  the  routine  remains  practically 
identical  with  what  it  was  in  my  days;  for  there 
is  no  suspicion  of  rivalry  between  the  studios 
beyond  the  kudos  of  producing  the  most  success- 
ful pupils.  The  unaffected  Bohemianism  which 
so  helped  to  enthuse  one  for  one’s  work  still 
exists  as  it  did  then.  Class  prejudice,  and  the 
“ cuffs-and-collar  brigade,”  are  still  unknown,  for 
the  “ conventional  ” has  no  attraction  for  the 
student  of  the  Quartier,  where  high  spirits  and 

even  eccentricity  in  every  form  are  winked  at 

ix 


PREFACE 

benevolently  by  the  authorities.  I had  a particu- 
larly pleasing  instance  of  this  not  so  long  ago, 
which  is  perhaps  worth  recounting.  I was 
piloting  a friend  who,  as  an  architect,  is  naturally 
interested  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  Art,  around 
the  artistic  haunts  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Rue 
Bonaparte,  when  I bethought  me  to  show  him  a 
well-known  atelier  in  the  Rue  du  Dragon,  where 
many  of  the  advanced  students  of  the  Ecole  paint 
from  the  life  during  the  afternoon,  and  where  I 
had  myself  worked.  Not  without  some  little 
difficulty,  as  I learned  that  a nude  female  model 
was  posing,  and  only  after  assuring  the  door- 
keeper that  I was  an  old  student,  were  we 
permitted  to  enter.  Knowing  what  pranks  might 
be  played  on  two  foreigners  by  a crowd  of  lively 
French  students  in  a studio,  I impressed  on  my 
friend  the  importance  of  appearing  as  uncon- 
cerned as  possible.  As  we  strolled  round,  looking 
at  the  amusing  cartoons  and  the  clever  studies 
with  which  the  walls  were  thickly  covered,  there 
was  a dead  silence,  although  it  had  been  pretty 
noisy  before  we  entered,  and  we  realised  that  we 
were  being  taken  stock  of  by  the  twenty  odd 
students  working  round  the  model.  After  a few 
minutes,  someone  remarked  loudly  to  his  neigh- 
bour, and  referring  to  us,  of  course: 

“ I think  the  tall  one  is  the  father.’’  To  which 
the  other  replied:  “No,  I think  the  shorter  man 
is  the  other  one’s  uncle.”  And  then  there  ensued 

X 


PREFACE 

a mock  conversation,  amusing  enough  in  the 
humorous  way  in  which  the  simplicity  of  an 
“ Ollendorf  ” exercise  was  sustained. 

We  continued  to  walk  round  as  unconcernedly 
as  possible  under  the  fire  of  badinage.  At  last 
the  man  who  had  started  the  chaff  said: 

“ Well,  have  it  which  way  you  please,  but  I 
don’t  think  it’s  good  form  coming  in  here  with 
collars  and  cuffs  on  this  warm  afternoon,  when 
we’re  all  so  hot  and  thirsty.” 

Naturally,  I lost  no  time  in  taking  up  this  cue, 
and  so,  addressing  the  nearest  man  to  me — a 
tall,  bearded  fellow — I asked  for  the  Massier,  as 
the  leader  of  a French  atelier  is  called.  This 
gentleman,  upon  hearing  himself  alluded  to, 
came  forward,  and  bowing  low  with  great  obse- 
quiousness, inquired  in  what  way  he  could  be  of 
service  to  our  “ highnesses.”  I then  explained 
that  I was  an  old  student,  and  was  visiting  the 
studio  for  the  first  time  after  many  years.  I 
added  that  in  old  times  it  was  customary  to 
“ wet  ” such  occasions,  and  it  would  give  me  very 
much  pleasure  if  I could  be  permitted  to  do  the 
same  thing  now.  The  Massier  replied  that  my 
reasoning  sounded  good,  so  he  asked  the  students 
what  they  thought  of  it.  Their  reply  was  quick 
and  to  the  point.  They  immediately  voted, 
amidst  much  merriment,  that  the  seance  should 
be  suspended,  whereupon  they  all  rose,  and  after 
forming  themselves  into  a sort  of  procession,  we 


PREFACi^ 

adjourned  to  a small  cafe  close  by,  whilst  the 
model,  who  had  slipped  on  a long  coat  over  her 
nude  form,  and  had  donned  a pair  of  slippers, 
came  along  also.  All  were  brimming  over  with 
fun  and  good-fellowship.  As  soon  as  the  drinks 
were  handed  round — and  it  will  be  of  interest  to 
mention  that  all  had  asked  for  black  coffee — one 
of  the  men,  who  was  evidently  the  orator  of  the 
studio,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  called  out  to  his 
companions ; “ Gentlemen,  let  us  drink  to  the 
health  of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  the  King  of 
England.”  A toast  to  which  they  all  responded 
most  heartily.  Then  someone  cried  out : “ And 
to  the  entente  cordiale  also.”  Then  followed  a 
most  charming  and  unaffected  chat,  all  being 
much  interested  in  what  I,  as  an  ancien,  had 
been  doing  since  I left  Paris.  Half  an  hour 
passed  thus,  as  delightfully  as  possible,  and  then 
someone  humorously  suggested  that  the  model 
would  catch  cold  if  she  stayed  out  too  long,  and 
then  they  wouldn’t  be  able  to  finish  their  painting. 
I strongly  advised  them  not  to  run  such  a 
risk,  so  out  we  all  trooped  again,  and  shook  hands 
all  round  on  parting  at  the  entrance  of  the  studio. 

This  impromptu  glimpse  of  the  camaraderie  of 
the  Latin  Quarter  impressed  my  friend  im- 
mensely. As  he  expressed  it,  it  was  a revelation 
to  him,  and  I could  well  understand  it,  for 
nothing  of  the  sort  could  possibly  exist  in  London. 

It  is  working  under  such  conditions,  and  in  this 
xii 


PREFACE 


atmosphere  of  unaffected  simplicity,  that  makes 
the  life  of  the  student  in  Paris  so  fascinating,  and 
which  has  provided  the  theme  for  so  many  books 
on  the  subject. 

In  the  following  reminiscences  I have  not 
attempted  to  gloss  over  or  palliate  any  of  my 
little  indiscretions  and  “ aventures.”  They  are 
part  and  parcel  of  the  life  of  the  student  in  Paris ; 
to  have  omitted  recounting  them  would  be  like 
Hamlet  without  the  ghost,  therefore  I can  lay 
claim  to  no  monopoly  in  this  respect.  My 
experiences  were  probably  but  the  counterpart  of 
those  of  many  other  students,  as  there  is  a terrible 
lack  of  originality  in  all  ‘‘  aventures  ” where  the 
fair  sex  is  concerned.  I can  only  venture  to  hope 
that  in  my  case  they  may  present  some  new 
version  of  an  old  topic.  That  the  personal  pro- 
noun is  so  much  in  evidence  throughout  my 
narrative  is  unfortunately  inevitable,  but  I trust 
any  shortcoming  in  this  respect  may  be  forgiven, 
if  only  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  in  reminiscences 
of  this  description  it  is  impossible  to  write  in  the 
third  person.  I recollect  once  reading  a comic 
autobiography  in  which  there  was  a footnote,  by 
the  printer,  to  the  effect  that  he  had  exhausted  all 
the  capital  Fs,  and  that  he  was  obliged  to  use  X's 
instead. 

I have  done  my  best  to  avoid  so  dire  a 
calamity. 

J.  M.  P. 
xiii 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

PAOB 

I arrive  in  Paris — The  house  in  the  Rue  de  Reuilly — 

The  Thomases  and  the  Messiers — A bit  of  old 
Paris — I go  to  see  Yvon  and  G4rome — A funny 
incident — I am  accepted  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts  and  received  as  a pupil  in  Chrome’s  studio  . i 

CHAPTER  II 

Looking  for  lodgings — The  Rue  Visconti — The  con- 
cierges— The  “ hotel  ” in  the  Rue  de  Seine — 

Visions  of  romance — I am  inscribed  at  the  Beaux 
Arts — The  Cours  Yvon — William  Stott  of  Oldham 
— Introduction  to  the  Quartier  Latin  . . . ii 

CHAPTER  III 

I leave  the  Rue  de  Reuilly — My  new  quarters — I make 
a start  at  the  Ecole — The  three  ateliers  de  peinture 
— Chrome’s,  CabaneTs  and  Lehmann’s — The 
routine  in  the  Antique — A probationer — My  fair 
neighbour  in  the  Rue  de  Seine — A disillusion — 
Working  hours  of  Paris  as  compared  with  London 
— The  gouter — Types  of  students — French,  Eng- 
lish, and  American — A stroll  after  work — Week- 
ends en  famille — The  house  in  the  Parc  des  Princes 
at  Auteuil — Practical  joking — An  incident  at  the 
Theatre  des  Italiens — The  f^te  at  Versailles — An 
interesting  experience  19 


XV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  IV 

PAOB 

I am  passed  for  the  atelier — My  entree — The  Massier 
— Paying  my  footing — An  impromptu  picnic — 

“ Ragging  ” the  nouveau — A duel  with  paint- 
brushes— The  corvee — A little  unpleasantness — A 
studio  procession  in  the  Quartier — Models — ^The 
visits  of  the  “ Patron  ” — An  amusing  incident — 
Sympathy  between  the  artist  and  his  pupils — 
G^rome’s  kindly  nature  .....  40 


CHAPTER  V 

Dejeuner  in  the  Quartier — Thirions — Curious  incident 
in  the  Rue  du  Four — Arlequins  k 2 sous — A joke 
on  the  waiter — Copying  at  the  Louvre — Julians — 

The  atelier  in  the  Rue  d’Uz^s  ....  54 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Quartier  at  night — The  Boulevard  St  Michel — 

Petites  ouvri^res— A good  joke  and  its  denoue- 
ment— Practical  joking  in  the  streets — The  woman 
on  the  roof — Searching  for  a Louis — The  caf4s  in 
the  Quartier — Bullier — A conjuring  trick — Joke 
on  the  cocher — Fun  at  the  waxwork  show  . 60 


CHAPTER  VII 

My  first  love  affair — Rose — Excursion  to  Meudon — 
Robinson — Fontenay  aux  Roses — A friture  at 
Suresnes — La  Grenouill^re — Amusing  incident  in 
a restaurant — Practical  joke  in  a studio — I leave 
for  London — Farewell  dinner  with  Rose — A last 
letter — End  of  my  first  love  affair 
xvi 


73 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

I return  to  Paris — Looking  for  new  quarters — The 
Rue  de  la  Rochefoucauld — Buying  furniture — The 
Baronne  d’Ange — First  night  in  my  new  room — 
Curious  incident — The  restaurant  in  the  Rue 
Vivienne — Eugenie — A rendezvous — A disappoint- 
ment— My  first  sale  of  a picture — The  petit  rentier 
— I am  commissioned  to  paint  a portrait — A 
worrying  sitter  ....... 


CHAPTER  IX 

I am  introduced  at  the  Caf^  de  la  Rochefoucauld — 
The  habitues  of  the  caf4 — Distinguished  men  one 
met  there — A Whistler  anecdote — Petites  dames — 
Models — La  Sagatore — La  Belle  Laure  and  her 
tragic  ending — English  girls  at  the  cafe  and  a 
joke  on  one  of  them — A favourite  with  the  ladies 
— A witty  remark — Stray  clients  at  the  cafi — The 
end  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Rochefoucauld — Bohemianr 
ism  and  some  curious  predicaments — Humorous 
situation  


CHAPTER  X 

Caf^s  in  Montmartre — The  Nouvelles  Ath^nes — The 
Rat  Mort — The  Place  Blanche — Amusing  experi- 
ence— An  incident  on  the  Place  Pigalle — The 
Abbaye  de  Th^leme — The  Elys4e  Montmartre — The 
Moulin  de  la  Galette — The  fast  women  in  the  Rue 
Breda  and  the  Quartier  de  Notre  Dame  de 
Lorette — Brasseries  and  caf4s — The  frail  sister- 
hood— The  underworld  of  Montmartre — The 

artists’  colony — Studios — Artists’  models  on  the 
Place  Pigalle — The  studio  district — The  inception 
of  the  Cabaret  du  Chat  Noir — Rodolphe  Salis 
“ Gentilhomme  Cabaretier  ” — Removal  of  the 


xvil 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 

Cabaret  to  the  Rue  de  Laval — Remarkable  proces- 
sion— A midnight  escapade — Artistic  surround- 
ings of  the  “ Chat  Noir  ” — The  theatre — Famous 
productions — Array  of  talent — Great  success  of  the 
cabaret — Imitation  “ Chat  Noirs  ” — ^The  Lion 
d’Or — New  school  of  decoration  . . . . no 


CHAPTER  XI 

Commission  to  paint  portrait  of  Monsieur  Thomas  for 
the  Salon' — I make  a start — A studio  in  the  Rue 
de  Reuilly — Amusing  episode — The  portrait  fin- 
ished— “ Sending-in  ” day — “ Accepted  ” — A little 
dinner  to  celebrate  event — A funny  incident — The 
lady  and  the  lion — The  Vernissage  at  the  Salon 
— Coveted  invitations — ^The  eventful  day — The 
scene  outside  the  Palais  de  1 ’Industrie — The  search 
for  one’s  picture — The  crowd — Smart  people — 
D4jeuner  at  Ledoyens — ^The  scene  in  the  Sculpture 
Hall  after  lunch — A drive  in  the  Bois  and  a bock  at 
the  Cascade  ........  xay 

CHAPTER  XII 

I move  to  the  Rue  Fontaine  St  Georges — I am  com- 
missioned to  paint  the  p>ortrait  of  Madame  Thomas 
— Buying  more  furniture — A house-warming — 
Amusing  jeu  d ’esprit — I take  a studio  with  a friend 
— The  Passage  Lathuille — A bad  neighbourhood 
— Low  rental — Studio  furniture — Lady  visitors — 
Impromptu  lunches — The  amateur  model — An 
amusing  experience — Attractive  personality  of  the 
average  female  model — “ Wrong  uns  ” — Earnings 
of  models — Faux  manages — Long  “ collages  ” — 
Cat-and-dog  existence — Middle-aged  ex-models — 

The  morals  of  the  ancienne  cocotte — How  a col- 
lage usually  commences — An  artistic  anecdote — 

Coolness  of  Frenchmen  nowadays — An  incident  in 
a caf4 — Mon  amie  in  the  Rue  Frochot — Laughable 

incident — A lapse  of  memory 139 

xviii 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PAGE 

The  Bal  des  Quatz  Arts— Difficulty  of  obtaining  ticket 
— My  costume — Rendezvous  at  cafd — Indelicate 
costumes  of  ladies — Starting  for  the  Elys^e  Mont- 
martre— Sergents  de  ville  guarding  entrance — 
Stringent  precautions — Impressions  of  ballroom 
scene — Gorgeous  costumes  of  men — Distinguished 

painters — Nude  girls — Blatant  indecency  of  dia- 

phanous  evening  dresses — Extraordinary  spectacle 
— Wild  dancing  and  deafening  music — I meet  a 
little  model — Her  costume — Processions  of  differ- 
ent ateliers — Wonderful  effects — Supper  served — 

The  danse  du  ventre  on  one  of  the  tables — No 
drunkenness  a feature  of  the  ball — Procession  of 
students  to  Quartier  Latin  in  morning — Arrest  of 
a nude  girl  in  street — True  hospitality  . . 156 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Visit  to  the  district  of  Fontainebleau — Marlotte — The 
village — The  open^ir  painters — The  village  inn — 

The  panels  in  the  salle  k manger — Painting  every- 
where— The  forest — The  main  street — Food  at  the 
hotel — The  petit  vin — The  table  d’hote — The  people 
one  met — Cheery  crowd — Billiards — “ Le  jeu  au 
bouchon  ” — O de  Penne  celebrated  painter  of 
sporting  pictures — His  maitresse — Their  marriage 
— His  house  and  bedroom — Ciceri,  the  landscape 
painter — His  knowledge  of  women — “ Her  old 
man’s  day  ” — The  daily  routine  in  Marlotte — A 
new  arrival — A radiant  vision — The  chic  Parisienne 
— A new  acquaintance — L’Inconnue — The  com- 
mencement of  a love  story — Delightful  days — A 
shock — The  end  of  the  romance  ....  170 


XIX 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XV 

PAGE 

Another  incident  at  Marlotte — The  American  artist — 

A caricature  after  dinner — A mysterious  departure 
— An  unpleasant  surprise  for  Marlotte — My  carica- 
ture at  the  Prefecture  de  Police — Lost  in  the  Palace 
of  Fontainebleau — Exciting  adventure — Unpopu- 
larity— An  amusing  joke 190 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A visit  to  Moret — Funny  adventure  on  way  to  station 
— A good-natured  Frenchman — Willing  hands — 

Arrival  at  station — Amusement  of  bystanders — Lost 
belongings — Incident  in  carriage — Disagreeable 
passenger — No  smoking — A whistling  story — 

Another  smoking  story — ^The  bully  and  the  ban- 
tam— A curious  military  incident  at  the  Gare  St 
Lazare — Moret  and  its  surroundings — Lolling  as 
a fine  art 203 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Changing  characteristics  of  Montmartre — Advent  of 
music — The  Divan  japonais — The  opening  night 
— A merry  evening — The  orchestra — The  audience 
oblige  on  the  piano — An  impromptu  dance — Going 
round  Montmartre — A “ chinois  sur  le  zinc  ” — 

The  gar^on  de  marchand  de  vins — An  unexpected 
musical  talent — The  gar^on  becomes  a great 
pianist — Christmas  in  Montmaitre — A party  in 
studio  in  the  Rue  Bochard  de  Saron — Artistic 
arrangements — I give  an  impromptu  ventriloquial 
entertainment — Extraordinary  effect — “ All’s  well 
that  ends  well  ” — Another  incident — A duel  by 
arrangement  — Drawing  lots  — An  unexpected 
climax 216 


XX 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PAQB 

Some  strange  examples  of  Bohemianism — The  hidden 
treasure — An  unex{>ected  meeting  after  several 
years — A pathetic  story — The  dead  child — Another 
incident — A bad-tempered,  jealous  woman  and  a 
meek  artist — The  worm  turns  at  last — A dramatic 
ending  to  collage — Perverted  Bohemianism — The 
young  student  and  the  married  woman — Ruin  and 
disgrace — The  usurers  of  the  Quartier  Latin — 

Their  hunting-ground  and  their  agents — The  spider 
and  the  fly — Speculative  risks  of  money-lenders — 
Cherchez  la  femme — Contrast  between  Paris  and 
London — Student  life 230 


CONCLUSION 

Bohemian  life  in  Paris — The  charm  of  the  caM 
— Gradual  change  in  one’s  tastes — Tlie  chez 
soi — Progress  in  one’s  work — New  friends — Forced 
to  return  to  England — A final  visit  to  G6rome  . 260 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Portrait  of  the  Author  in  1886.  From  a 

painting-  by  Solomon  J.  Solomon,  R.A.  . Frontispiece 
It  was  usually  a question  as  to  which  was  the  least 


dilapidated  and  dirty 12 

The  concierges  varied  as  much  as  the  rooms  . . *14 

A little  place  in  the  Rue  de  Buci 17 

Across  the  road  to  the  marchand  de  vin  for  gotiter  . 24 

The  types  of  students  varied  curiously  ....  26 

In  a very  few  minutes  they  were  both  covered  with 

colour  and  in  a hideous  mess 44 

Used  to  come  round  of  a morning  with  a case  of  brushes 

and  colours 50 

J.  L.  Gdrome 52 

The  Louvre,  where  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  hard  work  58 

It  was  often  quite  amusing 68 

Rose  74 

And  I was  more  in  love  with  her  than  ever  ...  76 

His  appearance  of  intense  respectability  ....  90 

One  of  the  girls  was  very  pretty,  fair  hair,  nice  teeth, 

good  figure,  blue  eyes 102 

They  were  dancers  at  the  Folies  Berg^res  . . . 106 

At  the  caf4 112 

The  whole  district  was  full  of  women  and  their  souteneurs  116 
The  women  sat  at  the  tables  in  gloomy  silence  . .120 

At  the  “ Chat  Noir  ” 124 

xxiii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 


My  first  exhibited  picture.  (Portrait  of  Monsieur  I. 

Thomas.  Paris  Salon,  i88i) 136 

Models 142 

Stood  irresolute  before  me  where  I sat  at  my  easel  . 146 

A very  sympathetic  and  attractive  personality  . .148 

As  here  and  there  a pair  of  bare  legs  or  a snowy  neck 

and  shoulders  passed  through 160 

Those  diaphanous  evening  dresses 164 

Either  painting  or  strolling  about  in  the  weirdest  of 

garbs 172 

Full  of  his  own  conceit 174 

As  though  in  a dream 188 

In  the  evenings  we  generally  managed  to  put  in  a cheery 

time  going  round  to  the  different  caf4s  . . .218 

She  was  of  so  jealous  a nature 240 

These  arrives  who  in  their  time  were  amongst  the  most 

devil-may-care  spirits  of  the  Quartier  . , . 260 


xxiv 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS 
IN  PARIS 

CHAPTER  I 

I arrive  in  Paris — The  house  in  the  Rue  de  Reuilly — ^The 
Thomases  and  the  Messiers — A bit  of  old  Paris — I go  to 
see  Yvon  and  G4rome — A funny  incident — I am  accepted 
at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  and  received  as  a pupil  in 
Chrome’s  studio. 

It  is  a grand  thing  to  be  young  and  on  the  right 
side  of  twenty,  but  unfortunately  one  does  not 
realise  it  till  long  afterwards,  when  it  is  too  late ; 
not  that  it  would  make  much  difference  I suppose 
if  one  did,  for  one  cannot  put  old  heads  on  young 
shoulders — still  it  is  curious  how  lightly  one  un- 
consciously takes  life  when  one  is  on  the  threshold 
of  it.  When  the  years  stretch  away  in  front  of  one 
through  a long  vista  of  hope  and  ambition  bathed 
in  the  radiant  sunshine  of  youth — why  should  one 
worry  about  disappointments  and  rough  times  that 
may  perchance  be  awaiting  one.  Vive  la  vie  is 
the  device  on  the  banner  of  youth — and  always 

1 A 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 
will  be.  I was  perhaps  no  more  philosophical  in 
those  early  days  of  my  career  than  the  average 
youth,  but  I was  endowed  with  a strong  perception 
of  the  romantic  side  of  things,  and  I can  well  recol- 
lect how  delightful  were  my  impressions  when  I 
found  myself  in  the  train  en  route  for  Paris  with 
the  prospect  of  several  years  of  student  life  before 
me.  Buoyed  up  with  the  enthusiasm  of  my  years, 
the  journey  appeared  to  me  like  the  realisation  of 
a dream,  and  I felt  like  some  bold  adventurer  of 
old  setting  forth  to  make  my  fortune. 

I was,  however,  leaving  London  under  sad  con- 
ditions— both  my  parents  having  died  a short  time 
previously  ; but  some  old  friends  of  my  father  were 
ready  to  welcome  me,  so  I found  a delightful  home 
waiting  me  in  their  midst.  I shall  never  forget 
those  early  days,  and  have  often  since  wondered 
whether  an  English  family  would  have  received  a 
raw  youth,  a foreigner — and  quite  a stranger  to 
them — with  such  open-hearted  and  affectionate 
hospitality  and  sympathy  as  was  shown  me  by  these 
kindly  French  people;  had  I been  of  their  own 
kith  and  kin  I could  not  have  found  more  good- 
will. Fortunately  for  me,  I already  spoke  French 
rather  well,  and  I had  a thorough  knowledge  of  it, 
as  I had  spent  a couple  of  years  in  a school  in 
Brussels — and  this  therefore  helped  a good  deal 
to  remove  the  diffidence  I should  have  doubtless 
felt  amongst  strangers  had  I not  been  able  to  con- 
verse with  them  with  ease.  This,  combined  with 


2 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

a good  constitution,  a fine  appetite,  and  a very 
limited  exchequer,  constituted  the  sum-total  of  my 
available  assets.  I must  not,  however,  forget  to 
add  that  I had  brought  with  me  a parcel  of  draw- 
ings and  sketches  and  a letter  of  introduction  to 
Adolphe  Yvon,  the  celebrated  painter  of  military 
subjects  and  Professor  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts. 

My  time  for  the  first  few  days  after  my  arrival 
in  Paris  was  spent  in  a luxury  which  was  no  doubt 
ill-fitted  to  prepare  me  for  the  rough  times  when 
I should  be  looking  after  myself  on  my  very  slender 
allowance ; still  it  was  indeed  very  pleasant.  My 
friends  were  wealthy  people.  Monsieur  Messier, 
a retired  manufacturer  of  couleurs  pour  papiers 
points,  lived  with  his  wife  in  a beautiful  villa  at 
Auteuil  in  the  Parc  des  Princes,  where  they  enter- 
tained with  princely  hospitality;  his  son-in-law, 
Monsieur  Isidore  Thomas,  his  successor  in  the 
business,  managed  the  factory,  which  was  situated 
in  the  Rue  de  Reuilly,  a thoroughfare  off  the 
revolutionary  Faubourg  St  Antoine.  He  and  his 
wife  and  their  little  son  Alexandre  lived  at  the 
" Fabrique.” 

This  factory  was  quite  unique  in  itlself,  and 
probably  the  last  of  its  kind  in  Paris.  It  was  a 
relic  of  the  past,  when  the  maitre  lived  amongst 
his  ouvriers  and  took  a paternal  interest  in  their 
affairs.  Once  through  the  lofty  porte-cochere 
leading  from  the  street  one  found  oneself  trans- 

3 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

planted  as  it  were  into  the  provinces,  so  sudden 
and  unexpected  was  the  change.  The  factory, 
which  was  surrounded  by  high  walls,  formed  a big 
quadrangle,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  the  house 
of  the  maitre  in  the  midst  of  a veritable  oasis  of 
fine  old  trees;  around  it  was  a large  garden  of 
several  acres  in  extent,  in  which  fruit  and 
vegetables  were  grown  in  abundance.  It  was 
difficult  at  first  to  realise  that  one  was  actually  in 
Paris  whilst  seated  at  dejeuner  or  dinner  on  the 
lawn. 

Monsieur  Thomas  was  a handsome  and  genial 
giant  of  about  forty-five  years  of  age,  and  both  he 
and  his  wife  were  the  very  personification  of  good- 
nature and  human  kindness.  Both  were  gifted 
with  a rare  sense  of  humour  which  still  further 
helped  to  make  the  house  in  Rue  de  Reuilly  a 
delightful  abode. 

But  I was  in  Paris  to  work  hard — not  to  play, 
and  although  I could  have  prolonged  my  stay  with 
them  indefinitely,  I was  anxious  to  make  a start. 
The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  present  my  letter 
of  introduction  to  Yvon,  as  on  his  verdict  depended 
my  admission  to  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts — where 
I hoped  to  continue  my  studies ; so  off  I went  one 
day,  accompanied  by  Monsieur  Thomas. 

Yvon  lived  in  the  Rue  de  la  Tour  at  Passy — in 
a big  barn  of  a house  particularly  bourgeois  in 
appearance.  We  were  received  in  the  atelier  by 
the  celebrated  painter,  a stout,  bearded  man — of 

4 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

slovenly  appearance — his  hair  and  general  appear- 
ance so  unkempt  as  to  give  one  the  impression  he 
had  not  washed  since  he  got  up — yet  it  was  close 
on  midday;  this  untidiness  was,  I recollect,  still 
further  accentuated  by  his  costume,  which  merely 
consisted  of  a red  flannel  shirt  and  a pair  of  very 
loose  trousers,  which  looked  like  dropping  down  at 
any  moment,  as  he  wore  no  braces  or  belt.  Alto- 
gether he  did  not  impress  me,  young  as  I was.  He 
received  us  in  a somewhat  pompous  manner,  which 
did  not  go  well  with  his  appearance ; still,  after 
reading  the  letter  and  looking  at  the  work  I had 
brought  with  me,  he  told  Monsieur  Thomas  that 
I might  join  his  afternoon  cours  de  dessin  at  the 
Ecole — and  then  sat  down  and  wrote  a letter  for 
me  to  present  to  the  famous  artist  Gerome  who 
had  one  of  the  three  ateliers  de  peinture  at  the 
Ecole. 

“ If  he  will  take  him  as  his  eleve  he  will  have 
nothing  further  to  worry  about,”  he  said  to  Mon- 
sieur Thomas.  “ Let  him  show  him  this  drawing 
when  you  go,”  picking  out  one  of  the  roll  I had 
brought  with  me. 

As  we  took  our  leave  after  thanking  him  for  his 
kindness  he  seemed  to  suddenly  throw  off  his  re- 
serve of  manner,  and  shaking  me  cordially  by  the 
hand  he  told  me  that  he  expected  me  to  call  on 
him  on  Sundays  whenever  I had  any  special  work 
to  show  him  to  ask  his  advice  about.  “ I expect 
all  my  eleves  to  do  this,”  he  added. 

5 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  have  started 
under  better  auspices,  and  Monsieur  Thomas — 
the  dear  old  fellow — was  if  anything  even  more 
delighted  than  I was,  and  as  we  returned  to 
Paris  he  already  congratulated  me  on  my  future 
successes.  The  next  step  then  was  to  go  to  see 
Gerome,  who  lived  in  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy. 
At  that  time  he  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  and 
his  name  was  a household  word  not  only  in  France 
but  all  over  the  world.  Monsieur  Thomas  was 
very  much  impressed  at  the  idea  of  our  calling  on 
such  a celebrity — much  more  in  fact  that  when  we 
went  to  see  Yvon.  I remember  he  got  himself 
up  specially  for  the  occasion  as  though  we  were 
going  to  a wedding — a new  tall  hat,  light  grey 
trousers,  lavender  kid  gloves,  a resplendent  tie. 
We  arrived  at  the  house,  and  on  his  announcing 
with  a certain  amount  of  pride  to  the  concierge 
that  we  had  a letter  of  introduction  to  the  maitre 
we  were  simply  told  to  go  upstairs  by  ourselves 
and  that  we  would  find  him  in  the  studio.  There 
was  an  entire  lack  of  formality — so  up  we  went. 

The  house  was  exquisitely  furnished — the  stair- 
case was  richly  carpeted,  and  the  walls  were  covered 
with  Eastern  tapestries  and  trophies,  whilst 
oriental  lamps  hung  from  the  ceiling.  It  was  in- 
deed the  house  of  a great  painter,  and  to  me,  a 
youngster  unused  to  such  artistical  splendour,  it 
was  like  a dream  of  the  Arabian  nights.  We  made 
our  way  upstairs  in  awed  silence.  There  was  not 

6 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

a soul  about,  so  we  paused  at  the  different 
landings  to  furtively  glance  in  at  the  gorgeous 
apartments.  By  the  time  we  reached  the  top 
floor  Monsieur  Thomas,  who  was  a portly  man, 
was  puffing  audibly ; he  wasn’t  accustomed  to  stair 
climbing,  although  it  was  only  the  third  floor,  and 
as  it  was  a hot  day  the  perspiration  was  pouring 
down  his  face.  There  was  only  one  door  on  the  top 
landing  so  he  knocked  timidly  in  case  this  wasn’t 
the  atelier — no  reply — he  knocked  again  louder — a 
voice  seemingly  from  far  away  called  out  “ Entrez 
done.”  We  entered  and  found  ourselves  on  the 
threshold  of  an  immense  studio ; right  away  in  the 
distance  was  a grey-haired  gentleman  of  military 
appearance  seated  before  an  easel,  palette  and 
brushes  in  hand,  whilst  a model  in  an  Eastern 
costume  was  posing  on  a platform  in  front  of  him. 
In  between  us  and  where  he  sat  was  an  immense 
expanse  of  polished  floor  which  looked  as  slippery 
as  ice.  We  both  stood  on  the  edge  of  it  in 
the  doorway,  irresolute  as  to  what  we  ought 
to  do. 

‘‘  Mais  entrez  done,  mes  amis,”  called  out  the 
artist  benevolently,  seeing  our  hesitation. 

Monsieur  Thomas  to  my  surprise  then  attempted 
some  impossible  feat  of  balancing  his  hat,  gloves, 
and  umbrella  in  the  corner  of  the  door,  whilst  fum- 
bling in  his  pocket  for  the  letter  of  introduction. 
Then  the  inevitable  happened,  as  he  was  not  a 
born  juggler — the  hat  and  umbrella  skidded  on  the 

7 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

polished  floor,  then  fell  down,  and  rolled  out  into 
the  studio,  and  in  endeavouring  to  regain  them  he 
nearly  came  to  grief  himself  on  the  treacherous 
surface.  I had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  preventing 
myself  from  bursting  out  laughing,  so  funny  did 
he  look.  This  interlude  would  have  probably 
continued  some  time  had  not  Gerome,  who  had 
meanwhile  taken  off  his  pince-nez  and  was  looking 
on  with  an  amused  air,  called  out  laughingly, 
“ Don’t  worry  about  your  belongings,  they  won’t 
hurt  on  the  floor.” 

Monsieur  Thomas  pulled  himself  together, 
wiped  the  beads  of  perspiration  from  his  forehead, 
and  we  made  our  way  gingerly  across  the  atelier. 

“ Une  lettre  de  mon  ami  Yvon  a propos  de 
ce  jeune  homme,  voyons  9a,”  said  the  maitre 
genially  as  he  opened  the  letter  of  introduction. 
“ Well,”  he  continued,  turning  to  Monsieur  Thomas 
after  he  had  read  it,  “ what  has  he  brought  to  show 
me  in  the  shape  of  his  work  ? ” 

With  much  trepidation  I undid  the  drawing  from 
the  antique  which  Yvon  had  suggested  my  bring- 
ing. It  was  one  which  the  Royal  Academy  in 
London  had  not  considered  good  enough  to  admit 
me  as  a student  in  the  school  of  that  august  insti- 
tution. I felt  that  my  whole  future  practically 
depended  on  the  opinion  he  passed  on  it.  He  put 
on  his  glasses  and  examined  it  critically — the 
next  few  seconds  seemed  interminable — then  he 
exclaimed,  “ Mais  9a  n’est  pas  mal  du  tout,”  and 

8 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

turning  to  my  friend,  whom  he  evidently  thought 
was  my  guardian,  he  added,  “ Je  le  prendrai  chez 
moi  ” ; then  he  went  over  to  his  bureau  and  wrote 
out  some  instructions  as  to  what  I had  to  do — 
where  to  present  myself,  and  so  forth.  The  whole 
interview  had  not  lasted  ten  minutes. 

Emboldened  by  his  friendliness,  I then  ventured 
to  produce  a water-colour  drawing  I had  made  up 
the  river,  and  which  I was  particularly  satisfied 
with.  It  was  an  evening  effect — with  a harvest 
moon  reflected  in  the  water.  Very  original  and 
poetical  I thought.  I remember  I called  it  “ The 
moon  is  up  and  yet  it  is  not  night.”  But  it  wasn’t 
to  be  all  compliments,  for  he  let  me  down  with  a 
run  when  he  said  briefly  after  a glance  at  it,  “ C’est 
un  peu  plat  d’epinards  ” (It  looks  rather  like  a dish 
of  spinach);  adding,  “You  must  put  aside  your 
paint-box  for  the  present  and  continue  to  work  from 
the  antique — le  dessin  c’est  I’essentiel  avant  tout — 
don’t  think  of  decorating  the  house  until  the  walls 
are  up.”  Then  rising  from  his  seat  to  signify  that 
that  was  an  end  of  it,  he  shook  me  warmly  by  the 
hand  saying,  “ Alors  vous  voila  lance,  mon  ami — 
ayez  du  courage,  travaillez  ferme  et  9a  ira.”  The 
unaffected  simplicity  and  charm  of  his  manner 
went  to  my  very  heart. 

As  we  came  down  the  stairs  I was  in  so  wild  a 
state  of  excitement  that  I felt  as  though  walking 
on  air — for  was  not  my  career  in  my  own  hands 
henceforth.^  Accepted  by  Gerome  and  Yvon, 

9 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

naught  now  remained  but  to  get  to  work  and  stick  at 
it  for  all  I was  worth. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  mention  that  there  was 
not  a penny  piece  to  pay  for  all  these  advantages. 
From  this  moment  I was  practically  on  the  same 
footing  as  the  French  students,  and  could  remain 
at  the  Ecole  as  long  as  I pleased. 

Now  came  the  important  question  of  finding 
lodgings. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 


Looking  for  lodgings — The  Rue  Visconti — The  concierges — 
The  “ hotel  ” in  the  Rue  de  Seine — Visions  of  romance — I 
am  inscribed  at  the  Beaux  Arts — The  Cours  Yvon — 
William  Stott  of  Oldham — Introduction  to  the  Quartier 
Latin. 

The  artistic  life  of  Paris  in  those  days  was  divided 
into  two  camps  as  it  were.  The  younger  men 
generally  were  to  be  found  in  the  Latin  Quarter 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts 
— whilst  the  men  of  maturer  years  who  had  finished 
with  the  schools  had  mostly  chosen  the  heights 
of  Montmartre  for  their  studios.  The  two  groups 
were  therefore  widely  separated.  Nowadays  it 
is  very  different,  the  two  areas  having  spread  con- 
siderably, and  the  districts  round  Montparnasse 
and  the  Parc  Monceau  are  full  of  artists.  From 
the  student  point  of  view  the  vicinity  of  the 
Rue  Bonaparte  was  the  best  place  in  Paris  to  live 
in,  as  it  was  near  the  Ecole  and  the  Louvre — so 
I was  advised  to  look  for  a room  somewhere  round 
about  there.  Of  course  my  friend  and  mentor. 
Monsieur  Thomas,  accompanied  me  in  my  search  ; 
whether  he  thought  I was  too  young  to  be  allowed 
to  hunt  round  for  myself,  or  that  he  and  his  wife 

II 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

feared  I might  fall  into  bad  company,  did  not 
transpire,  but  at  any  rate  he  gave  up  several  days 
of  his  valuable  time  to  help  me  fix  myself  up.  I 
could  not  have  had  a more  delightful  companion — 
although  old  enough  to  be  my  father,  he  had  the 
temperament  of  a boy,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed 
everything,  even,  I verily  believe,  to  climbing  up 
the  steep  stairs  in  the  old  houses — for  cheap  rooms, 
such  as  I was  looking  for,  were  invariably  close  to 
the  roof. 

Of  variety  and  choice  there  was  no  end — even 
at  the  very  moderate  rent  I was  only  able  to  give ; 
the  difficulty  was  to  make  up  my  mind.  It  was 
usually  a question  as  to  which  was  the  least  dilapi- 
dated and  dirty — the  sanitation  being  always  such 
that  the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  I suppose 
there  could  have  been  no  city  in  Europe  in  those 
days  where  less  attention  was  paid  to  this  subject. 
Apart  though  from  such  trifles  as  these,  there  were 
often  other  peculiarities  about  these  old  rooms  for 
which  I was  not  prepared  to  pay.  I remember 
one  place  in  the  Rue  Visconti — a narrow  thorough- 
fare off  the  Rue  Bonaparte — a fine  old  house,  as 
it  had  evidently  been  the  mansion  of  an  aristocrat 
in  bygone  times.  The  room  to  let  was  not  very  high 
up — only  on  the  second  floor;  it  was  very  large 
and  looked  over  an  expanse  of  garden — a some- 
what unusual  thing  to  find  in  the  Quartier  Latin. 
It  appeared  to  be  altogether  just  what  I wanted — 
plenty  of  light  and  air ; still  it  was  very,  very  old 

12 


“it  was  USUAI.I.Y  a QUKSTION  as  to  Wllini  WAS  THE 
LEAST  DILAPIDATED  AND  DIKTV.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

indeed,  and  also,  to  put  it  mildly,  somewhat  smelly, 
and  there  was  a peculiar  odour  about  it  which  I did 
not  then  know,  but  which  became  quite  familiar 
after  a little  while  in  Paris.  I at  first  thought  it 
was  because  the  window  had  been  closed  for  some 
days,  till  I happened  to  notice  something  on  the 
wall  by  the  bed,  which  was  in  an  alcove.  I 
drew  my  friend’s  attention  to  it.  He  laughingly 
remarked  to  the  concierge  that  the  room  although 
to  let  was  “ deja  habitee.” 

“ Oh,”  she  replied,  with  a shrug  of  her  shoulders, 
“ that’s  nothing — a sou’s  worth  of  insecticide  a day 
and  they’d  never  worry  him  much.” 

As  I had  come  to  Paris  to  study  Art,  not 
entomology,  I thought  I wouldn’t  chance  it — one 
subject  at  a time  would  be  sufficient.  I was 
sorry,  though,  as  it  was  a delightful  old  place — 
architecturally,  I mean.  The  majority  of  the  rooms 
we  saw  looked  as  though  they’d  never  had  a coat 
of  paint  or  fresh  wall-paper  since  the  house  was 
built,  and  one  required  to  be  very  young  and  full 
of  enthusiasm  for  work  to  make  up  one’s  mind  to 
live  in  such  dirt.  In  some  of  these  I recollect  the 
windows  did  not  look  out  on  the  street  or  even 
the  courtyard,  but  actually  got  their  light  and  air 
from  the  grimy  staircase ; these  were  often  known 
as  “ logements  de  gar^on.”  Still  they  were  cheap, 
and  that  was  the  principal  desiratum  from  the 
average  student’s  point  of  view.  At  one  place 
twelve  francs  a month  was  all  that  was  asked  for 

13 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

one  of  these  gloomy  logements,  and  “ furnished  ” 
at  that. 

The  concierges  varied  as  much  as  the  rooms. 
Sometimes  she  would  be  a motherly  sort  of  woman 
who  would  accompany  us  cheerfully  even  to  the 
sixth  floor,  dilating  the  while  on  the  advantages 
the  house  offered,  till  you  almost  felt  that  it  would 
be  unkind  not  to  take  the  room.  At  others  the 
janitor  would  be  a terrible  sort  of  person,  before 
whom  one  had  to  present  oneself  with  all  humility, 
asking  as  a favour  to  be  informed  what  there  was 
to  let — and  then  if  it  suited  her  august  convenience 
she  would  perhaps  condescend  to  show  us.  I may 
here  mention  that  it  does  not  require  a very  lengthy 
residence  in  Paris  to  discover  that  one’s  peace  of 
mind  practically  depends  on  the  temperament  of 
one’s  concierge.  I was  somewhat  fortunate  in 
this  respect,  as  I came  across  some  very  civil 
and  decent  ones;  but  the  majority,  from  what  I 
heard  and  saw  of  them,  were  gossiping,  mischief- 
making hussies  who  struck  terror  into  the  soul 
of  the  unfortunate  individual  who  was  not  ready 
to  the  very  moment  with  his  rent.  However, 
revenons  a nos  moutons. 

We  were  both  tired  out  and  sick  of  going  up 
and  down  steep  stairs  when  I happened  to  spot  a 
“ hotel  ” we  had  not  noticed  before,  in  the  Rue  de 
Seine.  Yes,  they  had  a room  to  let,  fortunately 
for  me  as  they  seemed  very  civil  people.  Would 
we  like  to  see  it?  It  was  on  the  first  floor — that 

14 


k 


7 


“the  concierges  varied  as  much  as  the  rooms. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

seemed  all  right.  So  up  we  went.  It  was  not  a 
large  room,  but  the  window  opened  on  to  a wide 
sort  of  terrace  overlooking  the  street — ideal  for  a 
breath  of  air  in  the  summer,  I thought.  Two 
adjoining  rooms  also  opened  on  to  the  terrace. 

We  were  discussing  the  rent,  which  was  a little 
higher  than  I wanted  to  give,  when  I suddenly  saw 
a very  pretty  hand  and  arm  appear  at  one  of  the 
windows  on  the  terrace,  and  arrange  the  curtains 
which  had  blown  out  with  the  breeze.  Visions  of 
one  of  those  romances  of  Paris  I had  read  at  once 
flashed  through  my  mind — I was  determined  to 
have  the  room  even  if  it  did  cost  me  more  than  I 
ought  to  pay.  To  the  surprise  of  my  friend  I said 
without  any  further  hesitation  that  I thought  it 
would  suit  me,  and  that  Pd  take  it  at  once — so  it 
was  settled  that  I should  take  possession  as  soon 
as  I liked.  As  we  came  downstairs  Monsieur 
Thomas  asked  me  why  I had  made  up  my  mind 
so  quickly. 

“ The  terrace  decided  me,”  I replied. 

“ Perhaps  you  are  right — it  will  give  you  a little 
more  air ; but  a deal  depends  on  what  your  neigh- 
bours are  like.” 

The  room,  I should  add,  was  furnished,  such  as 
it  was,  not  luxuriously  perhaps,  but  quite  as  well 
as  anything  I had  seen  hitherto;  at  any  rate,  I 
was  now  fixed  up — if  I didn’t  like  it  later  I could 
always  look  for  something  else. 

When  we  got  back  to  the  Rue  de  Reuilly  my 

15 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

good  friends  simply  overwhelmed  me  with  advice 
as  to  what  and  what  not  to  do,  and  even  went  so 
far  as  to  arrange  every  item  of  my  daily  expendi- 
ture to  a centime  almost.  At  the  same  time,  they 
drew  such  a picture  of  the  many  pitfalls  and  temp- 
tations which  were  about  to  beset  me  in  my  nevv 
life,  that  I really  began  to  feel  quite  nervous  as  to 
what  was  likely  to  happen  to  me.  However,  the 
feeling  arose  that  I was  now  a student  of  the 
Quartier  Latin  and  on  my  own,  so  I did  not 
let  myself  become  unduly  depressed  by  their 
pessimistic  though  good-natured  warnings.  At 
the  same  time  I must  confess  it — there  was  still 
in  my  mind  the  recollection  of  the  vision  of  female 
loveliness  I had  caught  the  glimpse  of  at  the 
window  on  the  terrace. 

Fortunately  Monsieur  Thomas  had  not  seen  it 
— or  I fancy  his  advice  would  have  been  somewhat 
different,  as  I was  a youngster  at  that  time ; whilst 
as  to  what  Madame  Thomas  would  have  said  had 
she  known  what  was  in  my  mind,  I don’t  like  to 
think,  although  they  were  neither  of  them  the  least 
bit  narrow-minded  or  strait-laced. 

The  following  day  I found  my  way  to  the  Ecole 
des  Beaux  Arts  and  presented  my  letter  from 
Gerome  at  the  bureau.  I was  then  duly  inscribed 
on  the  books  and  presented  with  an  oval-shaped 
card  on  which  was  written  my  name,  nationality, 
age,  and  address,  together  with  the  atelier  to  which 
I was  admitted  as  an  eleve.  The  porter  then 

i6 


A LITTLE  PLACE  IN  THE  RUE  DE  EUCL 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

obligingly  indicated  where  the  Cours  Yvon  was 
held,  and  the  big  hall  full  of  casts  from  the 
antique  where  I had  been  told  by  Gerome  to  com- 
mence my  studies.  Making  my  way  there,  and 
whilst  having  a look  round  and  wondering  what  I 
had  better  do  to  make  a start,  I suddenly  heard 
myself  addressed  in  English  by  a burly  young 
fellow  who  was  making  a drawing  close  by. 

‘‘  Y ou’re  a new-comer,  aren’t  you  ? Who  are 
you  with  ? ” 

“ Gerome,”  I replied,  with  much  pride. 

“ That’s  lucky,”  he  answered,  “ so  am  I.  What’s 
your  name.^  Mine  is  Stott — William  Stott  of 
Oldham.  I’ll  take  you  round  and  show  you  what 
you’ve  got  to  do — it  will  save  you  a lot  of  time 
finding  it  all  out  by  yourself.” 

So  we  had  a stroll  through  the  hall  and  the 
courtyard,  and  in  a very  short  time  were  quite  pals, 
and  then  he  suggested  our  going  to  have  a cup 
of  coffee  and  a smoke  at  a little  place  in  the  Rue 
de  Buci  which  was  the  rendezvous  then  of  many 
budding  artists.  Thus  my  introduction  to  student 
life  in  the  Quartier  was  quite  a delightful  experi- 
ence to  me.  As  we  sat  chatting  and  comparing 
notes,  as  it  were,  and  discussing  our  mutual  plans 
for  the  future,  I already  realised  the  curious 
fascination  of  the  free  Bohemian  life  of  Paris — and 
could  conceive  how  largely  it  is  instrumental  in 
bringing  out  individuality  and  self-reliance  by 
fostering  enthusiasm  for  one’s  work.  These 

17 


B 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

informal  gatherings  in  the  cafes  of  the  Quartier  were 
the  means  of  bringing  together  in  friendly  relation- 
ship men  who  would  otherwise  perhaps  not  have 
met  at  all  outside  the  atelier. 

We  afterwards  had  a stroll  round,  talking  of 
painting,  and  ending  by  discovering  we  had  some 
mutual  friends  in  England;  then,  as  I was  in  no 
particular  hurry  to  get  home,  we  dined  together  in 
a little  restaurant  in  the  Rue  St  Benoit  crowded 
with  students,  and  where  Stott  seemed  to  know 
everybody  from  the  patron  downwards.  The 
dinner  was  a very  decent  one  considering  it 
cost  only  1.25  vin  compris,  for  Stott  like  myself 
was  not  overburdened  with  wealth — in  fact  he  ex- 
plained to  me  that  he  had  to  be  pretty  careful  when 
it  was  getting  towards  the  end  of  the  month ; 
besides  which,  as  he  said,  there  were  other  things 
more  amusing  than  food  to  spend  one’s  money  on. 
It  was  not  long  before  I realised  that  also. 


18 


CHAPTER  III 


I leave  the  Rue  <ie  Reuilly — My  new  quarters — I make  a 
start  at  the  ^cole — The  three  ateliers  de  peinture — 
Gdrome’s,  Cabanel’s  and  Lehmann’s — The  routine  in  the 
Antique — A probationer — My  fair  neighbour  in  the  Rue 
de  Seine — A disillusion — Working  hours  of  Paris  as 
compared  with  London — The  gouter — Types  of  students — 
French,  English,  and  American — A stroll  after  work — 
Week-ends  en  famille — The  house  in  the  Parc  des  Princes 
at  Auteuil — Practical  joking — An  incident  at  the  Th^dtre 
des  Italiens — The  fete  at  Versailles — An  interesting 
experience. 

It  was  with  considerable  misgiving  that  I dragged 
myself  away  from  the  delightful  house  in  the  Rue 
de  Reuilly,  although  it  was  arranged  that  I should 
always  spend  my  week-ends  either  at  Auteuil  or 
with  the  Thomases.  I felt  a lump  in  my  throat 
when  the  time  came  for  me  to  be  leaving;  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I was  on  the  threshold  of  a 
new  life,  and  that  my  boyhood  was  over.  Hitherto 
I had  lived  at  home,  where  I had  no  worries  or 
responsibilities,  but  henceforth  I was  to  be  prac- 
tically dependent  on  my  own  individual  resources. 
Not  unnaturally  I felt  a certain  diffidence,  but  I 
pulled  myself  together  and  determined  to  get  on 
if  it  lay  in  my  power  to  do  so.  My  room  in  the 

19 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Rue  de  Seine  seemed  particularly  dreary  and 
poverty-stricken  after  the  luxury  I had  been 
accustomed  to,  and  the  few  personal  belongings 
I possessed  appeared  but  a sorry  lot  when  they 
were  brought  upstairs.  There  was  however 
naught  for  it  but  to  make  the  best  of  the  situation, 
so  I unpacked  and  then  made  my  way  to  the  Ecole, 
where  Stott  had  promised  to  meet  me. 

Under  his  guidance  it  did  not  take  long  to  get 
into  the  routine  of  the  work.  All  new-comers, 
however  much  experience  they  might  have  had 
previously,  were  obliged  to  start  in  the  “ antique.’’ 
This  was  obligatory.  All  that  was  necessary  in 
the  shape  of  equipment  were  a chair  and  a stool, 
a cardboard  portfolio  to  hold  one’s  paper  and  serve 
also  as  drawing-board,  some  charcoal,  and,  most 
necessary  of  all  to  the  novice,  stale  bread  to  rub 
out  with.  (It  would  be  interesting  to  know  how 
much  bread  is  used  in  a year  by  beginners.) 

There  were  three  ateliers  de  peinture  at  the 
Ecole — Gerome’s,  Cabanel’s,  and  Lehmann’s. 
They  were  all  situated  on  the  first  floor,  and 
entirely  distinct  from  one  another,  but  in  the 
novitiate  stage,  when  drawing  in  the  antique, 
everyone  worked  in  the  big  hall  where  he  pleased. 

The  Patron,  as  one’s  master  was  affectionately 
termed,  visited  his  atelier  twice  a week,  on  Wed- 
nesday and  Saturday  mornings,  and  after  inspect- 
ing the  painters,  he  would  come  through  the 
antique  to  look  at  the  work  of  his  new  pupils.  As 

30 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

soon  as  he  entered,  it  was  customary  to  stand  up 
by  one’s  easel,  as  otherwise  he  would  not  know 
which  were  his  eleves  amongst  the  crowd  at  work. 
His  visit  did  not  usually  occupy  more  than  a few 
minutes.  A few  words  of  encouragement — or  the 
reverse — and  one  was  left  to  one’s  own  devices,  to 
work  hard  or  otherwise — as  one  chose. 

Every  now  and  then,  when  there  was  room  in 
the  atelier,  a sort  of  informal  concours  was  held 
for  admittance,  and  a certain  number  of  drav/ings 
selected.  Until  then  one  was  only  a probationer 
and  could  not  go  upstairs  even  to  visit  a friend  in 
the  atelier.  It  may  be  imagined,  therefore,  how 
eagerly  one  looked  forward  to  getting  out  of  the 
first  stage;  but  it  was  long  and  heart-breaking, 
for,  under  the  French  system,  all  previous  notions 
of  drawing  had  to  be  changed.  Still,  experience 
helped  considerably  to  shorten  one’s  time  in  the 
antique;  it  was  different  to  being  an  absolute 
beginner.  Whilst  working  downstairs,  therefore, 
one  could  do  practically  as  one  pleased,  work  or 
play — as  for  the  matter  of  that  was  the  case  in  the 
atelier,  but  there  was  none  of  the  incentive  and 
enthusiasm  one  found  later  Avhen  painting  from  the 
life.  The  antique  was  the  drudgery  of  the  training, 
but  everyone  had  been  through  it  at  the  Ecole 
by  the  time  he  went  into  the  atelier.  You  were 
not  supposed  to  even  possess  a paint-box  till  you', 
could  draw — such  was  the  thoroughness  of  the 
system;  straightforward,  broad  draughtsmanships 

21 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

with  none  of  the  superfluous  detail  and  finish 
which  was  required  of  the  student  in  those  days 
by  the  Royal  Academy  in  London.  I had  already 
done  a considerable  amount  of  drawing  from  the 
cast  before  I went  to  Paris,  so  it  did  not  appear 
quite  so  tedious  to  me ; still  I had  not  thought  I 
should  have  to  go  through  it  all  again. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  I went  to  the  Cours 
Yvon,  which  was  held  in  an  amphitheatre  of  the 
Ecole.  In  those  days  only  a very  limited  number 
of  eleves  were  allowed,  so  I could  consider  myself 
fortunate  in  having  been  accepted.  Here,  at  any 
rate,  was  a break  from  the  monotony  of  the 
antique,  as  the  class  was  held  simply  for  rapid 
drawing  from  the  life ; but  it  was  a very  serious 
affair,  and  no  talking  whatever  was  permitted. 

I was  up  betimes  the  following  morning,  not 
entirely  because  I wanted  to  get  down  to  the 
School  early,  but  in  the  hope  of  catching  a glimpse 
of  my  fair  neighbour  before  I went  out.  I opened 
my  window,  when,  to  my  annoyance,  I saw  a big, 
bearded  individual  in  scanty  attire  leaning  over 
the  rail  smoking  a pipe.  I was  wondering  if  he 
was  the  occupant  of  the  room  on  the  other  side  of 
mine,  when  he  was  joined  by  a fat,  fair  woman  of 
uncertain  age,  and  not  the  least  attractive  in 
appearance,  in  a loose  peignoir,  who  came  from 
the  room  which,  in  my  mind’s  eye,  I had  pictured 
as  containing  the  elements  of  a romance.  This 
was  the  owner  of  the  arm  and  hand  that  had  con- 


22 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

jured  in  my  youthful  imagination  such  visions  of 
female  loveliness  and  romance.  I felt  very  disap- 
pointed, but  as  my  room  was  really  not  uncomfort- 
able and  very  conveniently  situated,  I consoled 
myself  with  the  thought  that  I might  have  been 
worse  off  elsewhere,  and  that,  as  I was  not  going 
to  be  indoors  very  often,  it  didn’t  much  matter — 
all  of  which  was  doubtless  very  philosophical.  I 
remember  I told  Stott  about  it,  and  he  roared  with 
laughter,  and  said  it  was  the  richest  thing  he’d 
heard  for  a long  time,  my  jumping  at  the  room  on 
the  sight  of  a plump  arm  at  the  next  window. 

“Never  mind,  old  man,”  he  added,  “you’ll 
probably  have  lots  of  new  neighbours  if  you  stay 
there  long  enough,  so  better  luck  next  time.” 

But  this  couple  had  evidently  got  a lease  of  their 
room,  for  they  were  still  there  when  I left.  My 
neighbour  on  the  other  side  of  the  terrace  turned 
out  to  be  a student — a young  Hungarian — with 
whom  I got  to  be  on  rather  friendly  terms.  My 
home  surroundings  were,  therefore,  of  the  most 
prosaic  and  unromantic  character  for  the  moment. 

In  Paris  the  day  practically  begins  two  hours 
ahead  of  London,  and  although  there  was  no  fixed 
hour  for  starting  work  in  the  antique,  one  un- 
consciously got  into  the  habit  of  commencing  as 
early  as  possible,  so  by  eight  o’clock  in  the  summer 
one  had  already  got  into  full  swing. 

I soon  found  my  way  about  the  Quartier.  There 
was  a little  cremerie  close  by,  where  one  got  a bowl 

23 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

of  excellent  coffee  and  a roll  for  thirty  centimes. 
This,  at  half-past  seven,  constituted  breakfast ; at 
ten,  Stott  and  I used  to  knock  off  for  a little  while 
and  go  across  the  road  to  the  marchand  de  vin  for 
gouter,  which  consisted  of  a glass  of  white  wine  and 
a croissant.  This  cost  another  thirty  centimes ; 
and  this  gouter  made  a welcome  break  in  the  long 
morning.  For  dejeuner,  there  was  the  choice  of 
several  little  cheap  restaurants  round  about,  where 
one  could  suit  one’s  meal — not  to  one’s  appetite, 
that  would  never  have  done — but  to  one’s  purse ; 
then  after  a coffee  and  a cigarette,  back  to  the 
School  to  work  all  the  afternoon. 

It  was  hard  and  monotonous,  but  buoyed  up 
with  the  thought  that  it  would  not  be  long  before 
one  got  into  the  atelier,  the  days  passed  quick 
enough.  I recollect  the  envy  with  which  one 
looked  on  the  men  who  were  working  upstairs — 
bearded,  long-haired  fellows  in  all  manner  of 
fantastic  garb,  with  slouch  hats  rakishly  worn, 
cigarette  on  lip,  and  big  paint-boxes  slung  by  a 
strap  on  their  shoulders.  These  men  to  our  eyes 
were  what  were  known  as  “ arrives,”  and  we  all 
hoped  to  be  like  them  some  day. 

The  types  of  students  varied  curiously,  and 
formed  quite  a study  in  itself.  There  were 
three  categories.  The  “ rapins,”  or  veriest 
beginners — youths  who  looked  like  a drawing 
by  Gavarni,  and  affected  a “ get-up  ” which  they 
fondly  imagined  proved  them  to  be  born  artists — 

24 


A('I«)SS  rilK  ROAD  TO  THI'.  MAI^TIANl)  DIC  N'lX  FOR  (iOUTFR. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

long  hair  cut  a la  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  flat-brimmed, 
black,  sombrero  hats,  enormous  bow  ties,  velvet 
coats,  and  pegtop  trousers.  These  fellows  were 
always  talking  Art,  and  laying  down  their  views 
on  it,  whilst  running  down  the  works  of  all  the 
great  old  masters  of  any  school,  indiscriminately. 
It  was  condescension  on  their  part  to  even  admit 
there  were  any  artists  before  their  own  advent 
in  the  world.  Then  there  were  the  “ poseurs  ” — 
most  insufferable  snobs — who  would  talk  loudly  to 
their  pals,  whilst  working,  about  their  friend,  the 
dear  Duchess  of  this,  or  their  uncle,  the  Vicomte 
of  that,  and  so  forth,  for  the  benefit  of  all  around. 
But  this  big  talk  didn’t  impress  us  much  if  we 
happened  to  hear  it.  The  aristocracy  inspired  no 
awe  in  the  mind  of  the  average  student;  rather 
the  contrary — it  and  the  sale  bourgeois,  who  were 
born  rich  and  idle,  excited  disgust  and  contempt, 
which  was  often  expressed  in  forcible  terms. 

There  was  a funny  way  of  letting  the  “ poseurs  ” 
know  what  was  thought  of  their  bombastic  talk, 
when,  for  instance,  one  of  them  mentioned  perhaps 
how  he  had  been  dining  the  evening  previously 
with  someone  of  title.  Immediately  the  crowd 
working  round  would  imitate  in  chorus  the  bugle 
call  with  which  it  is  customary  to  receive  a general 
when  he  rides  on  to  parade.  There  would  be  a 
yell  of  laughter,  and  this  usually  stopped  them 
bragging,  for  that  day  at  any  rate. 

Then  there  were  the  English  and  the  Ameri- 

25 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

cans,  mostly  quiet,  reserved,  and  well-dressed 
fellows,  who  kept  themselves  very  much  to  them- 
selves, seldom  attempting  to  join  in  any  “ ragging,” 
probably  because  their  knowledge  of  French  was 
as  a rule  very  limited ; in  fact,  it  was  this  reserve 
which  accounted  for  so  few  of  them  acquiring  any 
proficiency  in  the  language.  I knew  several  men 
who  had  lived  several  years  in  Paris,  yet  could 
scarcely  speak  a word  of  French;  they  were  always 
speaking  English,  and  did  not  appear  to  care  to 
associate  with  anyone  outside  their  own  set. 

With  the  exception  of  the  English  and  the 
Americans,  the  majority  of  the  students  at  the 
Ecole  were  as  poor  as  church  mice,  and  how  they 
managed  to  live  was  always  a mystery  to  me,  yet 
they  seemed  happy  enough.  There  was  one  chap 
in  particular — he  has  made  a name  for  himself 
since — who  only  had  fifty  francs  a month.  His 
parents  were  peasants,  he  told  me,  and  it  was  only 
by  pinching  themselves  that  they  were  able  to  send 
him  even  this  modest  pittance.  Still  he  managed 
to  exist  on  it  somehow,  to  his  great  credit,  and 
was  already  doing  good  work.  I remember  he 
confided  in  me  that  he  had  contrived  to  make  his 
own  colours ; otherwise  he  could  not  have  afforded 
to  buy  them  at  the  marchand  de  couleurs.  Of 
course,  most  of  the  students  were  quite  young — 
some  scarcely  more  than  lads — but  there  were 
several  who  were  long  past  the  conventional  age 
of  the  etudiant  of  the  Quartier;  they  had  started 

26 


“the  TVr>ES  OP’  STUDENTS  VARIED  CURIOUSLY.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

too  late,  as  a rule,  and  would  always  remain 
novices. 

When  work  was  over,  or  if,  as  not  infrequently 
happened,  after  dejeuner,  the  weather  was  parti- 
cularly warm,  Stott  and  I would  have  a stroll,  and 
perhaps  make  our  way  across  the  river  to  the 
Louvre,  or  else  to  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  watch 
the  gay  traffic,  and  discuss  what  we  should  do  with 
all  our  wealth  if  ever  we  became  famous,  and  rich 
in  consequence.  Ah ! those  dreams  of  youth ! 

And  so  the  weeks  passed,  and  on  Sundays  I 
always  spent  the  day  like  a good  boy — en  famille. 
Not  that  there  was  anything  in  the  nature  of  an 
irksome  duty  about  it ; very  much  to  the  contrary, 
in  fact,  and  I quite  looked  forward  to  the  week- 
ends at  Auteuil,  where  I usually  went,  as  the  old 
people  liked  to  have  all  the  family  round  them  on 
Sundays.  There  was  always  a lively  gathering — 
endless  badinage  and  laughing,  and  never  a dull 
moment. 

Dejeuner,  in  particular,  was  a great  affair  on 
Sundays,  as  friends  would  often  drive  out  from 
Paris  and  arrive  unexpectedly,  so  one  never  knew 
beforehand  how  many  would  sit  down;  but  the 
house  was  so  large  that  it  did  not  really  matter — 
the  more  the  merrier. 

Monsieur  Thomas  and  I would  often  arrange 
some  harmless  practical  joke  on  someone  present, 
which  was  always  laughable,  because  it  was  quite 
inoffensive,  and  even  the  pompous  old  butler  had 

27 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

difficulty  at  times  in  keeping  his  countenance.  I 
remember  one  of  these  jokes  particularly,  as  it 
ended  rather  curiously.  There  was  a young  fellow, 
a relative  of  the  family,  a student  at  the  Ecole  de 
Droit.  He  was  a particularly  timid  and  retiring 
youth,  and  so  nervous  that  he  would  blush  and 
simper  like  a schoolgirl  on  the  slightest  provo- 
cation. One  Sunday  Monsieur  Thomas  and  I got 
up  a joke  at  his  expense  to  see  what  he  would  do. 
We  managed  to  procure  some  dummy  cakes  made 
of  a sort  of  canvas,  and  very  much  like  the  real 
thing.  I recollect  they  represented  brioches  with 
chocolate  on  them,  and  looked  exactly  like  the 
sort  which  are  sold  with  cream  inside,  and  I 
arranged  to  put  them  in  a dish  separately.  Every- 
body at  table  was  in  the  secret,  and  when  it  came 
to  handing  round  the  sweets  I persuaded  him  to 
try  one  of  the  dummy  cakes.  We  all  of  us  went 
on  talking  loudly  and  looking  the  other  way  so 
as  not  to  burst  out  laughing;  then  after  giving 
him  time,  as  we  thought,  to  find  out  the  joke,  we 
turned  round  to  ask  how  he  liked  this  particular 
kind  of  eclair.  To  our  amazement  we  discovered 
he  was  eating  it  with  gusto,  apparently  being  too 
timid  to  make  any  remark. 

Naturally,  I felt  a bit  nervous  as  to  what  the 
result  might  be,  but  thought  it  better  to  say  nothing 
in  order  not  to  frighten  him ; but  he  had  evidently 
got  a digestion  like  an  ostrich  for  all  the  effect  it 
had  on  him.  He  seemed  rather  to  like  it,  in  fact. 

28 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

I was  passing  through  the  salle  a manger  after 
lunch  when  I happened  to  notice  something  lying 
on  the  floor  under  the  table.  To  my  surprise,  I 
found  it  was  the  cake  in  question ; our  timid  friend 
was  not  quite  such  a fool  as  we  took  him  for. 

Apart,  however,  from  practical  joking,  there  was 
always  such  an  atmosphere  of  gaiety,  and,  if  I can 
put  it  so,  of  youth,  at  the  house  in  the  Parc  des 
Princes  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  pass  a 
dull  day  there.  The  whole  family  all  took  the 
keenest  interest  in  my  work,  and  as  soon  as  I 
arrived  on  Sunday  or  Saturday,  as  the  case  might 
be,  I had  to  give  them  a full  account  of  my  doings 
during  the  week.  As  I was  the  first  Art  student 
they  had  had  in  their  midst,  my  description  of  the 
life  in  the  studio  and  the  Quartier  came,  I imagine, 
as  a sort  of  revelation  to  them  all,  to  the  ladies 
especially — though,  of  course,  I had  to  somewhat 
veil  my  stories.  They  would  have  been  a bit  too 
hot  for  these  simple  bourgeois,  who  looked  upon 
Paul  de  Kock  and  Henri  Murger  as  mere  ro- 
mancers. What  a splendid  audience  they  made. 
Over  lunch  or  dinner  I was  always  a privileged 
raconteur,  and  if  I happened  to  hit  on  something 
particularly  interesting,  their  rapt  attention  well 
repaid  me  for  having  to  eat  my  food  cold,  as  often 
would  happen,  and  then  they  would  all  have  to 
wait.  Mais  laissez  le  manger,”  someone  would 
exclaim.  “ He’ll  finish  the  story  afterwards.” 

But  there  were  some  very  pretty  women  there 

29 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

sometimes,  and,  young  as  I was  then,  I felt  how 
delightful  it  was  to  be  able  to  interest  them  even 
a little  bit.  Occasionally  we  would  make  up  a 
theatre  party  on  Saturdays  and  drive  into  Paris  in 
the  landau  with  the  two  big  horses,  and  when  we 
came  back  it  was  almost  like  returning  to  the 
country,  so  quiet  was  Auteuil  in  those  days. 

Talking  of  theatres  reminds  me  of  a somewhat 
curious  incident  that  happened  on  one  of  these 
occasions.  We  had  gone  to  the  Theatre  des 
Italiens,  which  was  then  one  of  the  most  fashion- 
able places  in  Paris.  It  has  long  since  been 
pulled  down.  My  friends  always  did  things  well — 
besides  which,  as  they  were  very  rich,  they  could 
afford  to ; so  they  generally  had  a box,  and  on  this 
particular  occasion  we  had  the  best  loge  in  the 
house.  There  were  four  of  us,  one  lady  and  three 
men.  As  there  was  plenty  of  room  I happened 
to  be  sitting  well  in  front,  and  in  full  view  of  the 
house.  The  curtain  was  not  yet  up  when  we 
entered,  and  we  had  not  been  seated  many  minutes 
before  we  noticed  everyone  looking  in  our  direc- 
tion. Glasses  were  levelled  on  us  from  all  sides. 
We  could  see  we  were  being  talked  about,  and 
altogether  there  was  no  mistaking  it,  we  had 
attracted  attention,  for  some  reason  or  other  which 
we  did  not  know.  Still,  the  interest  we  had 
excited  was  evidently  not  of  a disrespectful  nature 
— rather  the  contrary ; of  that  there  was  no  doubt. 
We  began  to  wonder  what  was  the  cause  of  it  all, 

30 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

when  a discreet  knock  came  at  the  door  of  the  box 
and  Monsieur  Thomas  went  to  see  who  it  was. 
He  was  outside  for  a few  seconds,  and  when  he 
returned  there  was  an  amused  smile  on  his  face, 
which  we  all  knew  from  experience  meant  he  had 
something  up  his  sleeve. 

“Well,  what  is  it?  ” we  all  asked. 

“ Keep  perfectly  calm  and  don’t  laugh,  because 
we  are  being  looked  at,”  he  replied  with  an  assumed 
air  of  great  dignity,  “ and  I will  tell  you.  It 
has  got  about  that  Julius  is  the  Prince  Imperial 
visiting  Paris  incognito,  and  I was  asked  if  such  is 
the  case.  We  shall  have  to  be  very  circumspect 
as  there  may  be  a demonstration  when  we  leave.” 

I may  here  mention  that  I was  supposed  to  bear 
some  resemblance  at  that  time  to  the  ill-fated 
Prince. 

“ But  what  did  you  reply?  ” I naturally  asked. 

“ I told  them  I was  not  at  liberty  to  tell  who 
you  were — which  is  true,  isn’t  it?  you  haven’t  given 
me  permission.  Anyhow,  c’est  assez  amusant 
n’est  ce  pas  ? ” 

“ Well,  you’ll  have  to  be  very  deferential  to  me 
all  the  evening,”  said  I,  scenting  a good  joke,  and 
they  all  agreed  to  follow  it  up.  So  when  it  was 
the  entr’acte,  and  we  went  into  the  foyer,  I got  the 
two  men  to  walk  obsequiously  on  either  side  of 
me  with  their  opera  hats  in  their  hands,  whilst  I 
remained  covered.  In  the  meantime  the  rumour 
had  got  round  that  I was  the  Prince,  and  the 

31 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

people  gathered  round  to  such  an  extent  that  it 
became  quite  embarrassing,  and  I was  at  last  glad 
to  return  to  the  box.  At  the  conclusion  of  the 
performance  we  found  quite  a crowd  waiting  out- 
side, and  as  I got  into  the  carriage  several  hats 
were  raised  in  respectful  salutation.  It  was  indeed 
an  amusing  experience.  The  following  day  one 
or  two  of  the  papers  gave  out  that  the  Prince 
Imperial  had  been  seen  at  the  Theatre  des  Italiens 
the  previous  evening,  but  that  no  political  impor- 
tance need  be  attached  to  his  visit  to  Paris,  as  he 
desired  to  remain  quite  incognito. 

All  my  souvenirs  of  those  early  days  at  Auteuil 
are  delightful.  Here  is  another  which  is  well 
worth  recounting,  as  it  was  quite  as  interesting  in 
its  way.  A big  fete  was  given  at  the  Palace  of 
Versailles,  in  honour  of  some  royal  personage  if  I 
remember  rightly.  Anyhow,  it  was  intended  to 
outshine  any  previous  entertainment  of  its  kind 
given  since  the  war.  The  papers  for  days  before- 
hand were  full  of  descriptions  of  the  wonderful 
decorations  and  the  preparations  for  the  illumina- 
tions of  the  gardens,  for  it  was  intended  that  on 
this  occasion  all  the  ancient  glories  of  Versailles 
under  Louis  XIV.  should  be  revived.  The  spec- 
tacle promised  to  be  unique,  so  it  may  be  imagined 
how  eagerly  the  invitations  were  sought  after,  for 
everybody  wanted  to  be  present.  To  our  great 
satisfaction  Monsieur  Thomas  received  one  of  the 
coveted  cards. 


32 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Well,  the  Sunday  before  the  fete  we  were  at 
Auteuil  as  usual,  and  after  lunch  one  of  the  ladies 
mentioned  how  much  she  would  have  liked  to  be 
able  to  see  the  illuminations  on  the  great  night 
We  all  agreed  that  they  would  be  a sight  the  like 
of  which  had  never  before  been  seen  anywhere,  if 
they  were  carried  out  as  the  papers  described  they 
would  be. 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  public  were  not  to 
be  allowed  to  approach  anywhere  near  the  Palace, 
so  there  was  no  chance  of  anyone  without  a card 
of  invitation  getting  through  the  cordon  of  police. 
Suddenly  someone  suggested  a way  by  which  a 
few  of  us  at  any  rate  could  see  the  gardens,  if  the 
scheme  was  carried  out  successfully. 

And  this  is  what  he  proposed:  That  instead 
of  Monsieur  Thomas  going  in  the  carriage  he 
should  take  the  factory  van,  and  we  would  stow 
ourselves  in  it  somehow,  and  if  we  got  through 
the  lines  we  should  have  plenty  of  opportunity  of 
seeing  all  that  was  going  on.  This,  of  course, 
was  only  the  rough  idea ; how  he  proposed  to  carry 
it  out  I will  describe. 

Well,  Monsieur  Thomas,  sportsman  as  he  was, 
agreed  to  risk  it ; so  it  was  arranged  that  the  van 
should  come  early,  so  as  to  give  us  ample  time  to 
make  our  preparations.  I may  here  explain  that 
the  covered-in  vans  used  in  France  are  known  as 
“ tapissieres.”  They  are  very  large  vehicles, 
solidly  built,  and  with  a hood  projecting  over  the 

33  c 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

driver’s  seat.  When  they  belong  to  a big  private 
firm  or  a factory  they  seldom  have  any  name  on 
them,  and  therefore  have  a certain  air  of  distinc- 
tion. The  tapissiere  from  the  Rue  de  Reuilly 
was  quite  well-appointed  and  clean.  The  impor- 
tance of  this  having  been  the  case  will  be  seen, 
and  the  driver  Antoine  had  been  with  the  firm 
since  he  was  a lad,  and  his  father  and  grandfather 
before  him,  so  he  could  be  fully  trusted  to  carry 
out  any  instructions  without  remark. 

The  eventful  night  arrived,  and  punctually  to 
time  the  van  perfectly  empty  and  thoroughly  clean 
inside  and  out.  Everything  had  been  well  thought 
out  and  was  in  readiness.  Four  of  us  were  to 
accompany  Monsieur  Thomas.  A very  pretty  girl 
of  eighteen  a niece  of  his,  Alexandre  Thomas, 
another  young  fellow,  and  myself. 

As  I have  explained,  the  van  was  a very  large 
one,  and  there  was  plenty  of  space.  We,  there- 
fore, put  into  it  chairs,  a fauteuil  for  the  lady,  a 
small  table  and  a lamp,  which  made  it  look  like 
a tiny  sitting-room ; but  we  knew  it  was  likely  we 
should  be  out  all  night,  so  it  was  necessary  to 
arrange  to  be  comfortable.  Of  course,  the  reason 
for  the  table  had  not  been  overlooked,  and 
Madame  Thomas  had  it  well  stocked  with  sand- 
wiches, fruit,  sweets  and  wine.  We  were  going 
to  make  a delightful  picnic  of  the  adventure,  and 
all  were  in  the  gayest  spirits. 

At  last  we  were  ready  to  start,  and  amidst  much 

34 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

laughter  we  all  climbed  into  the  vehicle,  the  door 
of  which  could  be  bolted  from  the  inside.  Mon- 
sieur Thomas  looked  positively  magnificent  in 
evening  dress  with  his  big  fur  coat,  and  very  much 
out  of  place  in  the  van,  but  that  was  part  of  the 
plot  that  he  should,  as  will  be  seen.  Well,  off  we 
started,  and  the  two  powerful  horses  made  light 
of  their  easy  load.  It  does  not  take  long  to  cover 
the  distance  between  Auteuil  and  Versailles  as  a 
rule,  but  on  this  eventful  occasion  we  had  no 
sooner  got  into  the  main  road  than  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  an  endless  stream  of 
carriages  of  every  possible  description  conveying 
guests  to  the  Palace.  We  made  but  slow  progress 
as  we  gradually  approached  our  destination,  and 
at  last  barely  moved  at  a walking  pace,  so  dense 
was  the  crowd  of  vehicles ; but  we  took  the  delays 
in  very  good  part.  The  lamp  was  extinguished, 
and  we  sat  with  the  door  at  the  back  wide  open, 
so  had  a fine  view  of  all  that  was  going  on  around, 
as,  so  far,  our  peculiar  carriage  had  been  allowed 
to  proceed  without  hindrance — it  might  have 
been  a van  going  anywhere  in  the  direction  of 
Versailles,  and  the  road  was  only  blocked  after 
a certain  point,  which  had  been  announced  by  the 
police.  At  last  we  knew  we  were  within  touch  of 
the  military  cordon  round  the  Palace,  so  the  door 
was  closed,  and  we  sat  in  darkness,  though  we 
could  see  all  that  was  going  on  through  the  front 
of  the  van.  We  could  see  the  carriages  ahead 

35 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

of  us  pulled  up  whilst  the  occupants  produced 
their  tickets  of  invitation.  The  regulations  were 
very  stringent  on  this  point. 

Now  the  culminating  point  of  our  adventure  was 
at  hand,  and  it  was  necessary  for  Monsieur  Thomas 
to  enact  his  part  in  it.  Seating  himself  in  the 
front  of  the  van  next  to  Antoine,  he  waited  events. 
We  proceeded  at  a snail’s  pace.  Suddenly  an 
officer  rode  up  and  demanded  furiously  to  know 
“ what  that  tapissiere  was  doing  there.”  Then 
Monsieur,  standing  up,  called  out  to  him.  The 
sight  of  this  resplendent  personage  in  evening 
dress  and  heavy  fur  coat  on  the  humble  van 
had  the  desired  effect.  The  officer  was  evidently 
much  surprised,  and  he  came  up  alongside  to 
investigate  personally.  Then  Monsieur  Thomas 
produced  the  gorgeous  card  of  invitation  to  the 
Palace,  and  explained  that  his  carriage  had  broken 
down  on  the  road  from  Paris,  and  this  “ brav 
homme,”  indicating  Antoine,  who  sat  as  stolid  as 
a deaf  mute,  had  kindly  offered  to  give  him  a lift. 
Of  course  we  could  not  be  seen,  as  we  were  sitting 
in  the  darkness  inside.  The  officer  was  much 
impressed,  and  congratulated  Monsieur  Thomas 
on  his  luck  in  arriving  at  all ; and  then  turning  to 
Antoine,  added,  “ I will  give  you  a pass  so  that 
you  can  get  through  and  out  again  without  diffi- 
culty,” and  handed  him  an  official  card. 

This  done,  we  then  proceeded,  and  soon  found 
ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  splendour  of  the  fete 

36 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

It  was  like  driving  through  fairyland,  as  our  pretty 
companion  expressed  it,  and  really  the  effect  was 
very  beautiful.  On  all  sides  were  illuminations, 
and  in  every  possible  place — in  the  trees,  along  the 
walks,  round  the  fountains — statues  everywhere ; 
whilst  the  strains  of  music  which  could  be  faintly 
heard  added  to  the  weird  and  enchanting  effect. 
It  was  indeed  a sight  to  be  remembered,  and  well 
worth  the  risk  we  had  taken.  We  had  no  difficulty 
in  driving  right  up  to  the  entrance  indicated  in 
Monsieur  Thomas’s  invitation  card.  We  were 
stopped  several  times,  but  the  official  pass  acted 
as  an  Open  Sesame. 

We  arranged  to  go  and  wait  with  the  van  at  a 
certain  well-known  cafe  restaurant  in  Versailles, 
as  we  rightly  anticipated  there  would  be  a tremen- 
dous rush  for  the  carriages  after  the  fete  was  over, 
and  possibly  much  difficulty  in  meeting  in  the 
grounds  of  the  Palace.  Very  slowly  we  made  our 
way  out  after  depositing  Monsieur  Thomas  safely 
at  the  brilliantly  lighted  entrance,  where  was  a 
big  crowd  of  elegant  ladies  and  men  in  every 
description  of  gorgeous  uniform.  Someone  re- 
marked irreverently  that  it  looked  like  the  com- 
mencement of  a fancy-dress  ball. 

We  reached  the  cafe  and  were  not  sorry  to  get 
out  of  the  van,  as  we  all  felt  very  cramped  after 
sitting  in  its  somewhat  narrow  confines  for  so  long. 
Still,  we  had  had  a wonderful  experience,  the 
memory  of  which  would  long  remain.  Now,  how- 

37 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

ever,  commenced  the  tedium  of  waiting  for  the 
return  of  our  friend,  and  I can  still  recollect  vividly 
how  slowly  the  time  dragged  on,  and  how  sleepy 
we  all  got  towards  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 
The  cafe  we  were  in  offered  nothing  very  attrac- 
tive at  that  time  of  night,  and  as  we  had  already 
supped  copiously  in  the  van  naught  remained  but 
to  while  away  the  time  as  best  we  could  playing 
cards  and  drinking  endless  coffees. 

At  last,  as  we  were  all  dozing  off.  Monsieur 
Thomas  turned  up,  and,  tired  though  we  were,  his 
appearance  caused  us  the  greatest  merriment.  I 
can  still  see  him  in  my  mind’s  eye.  He  was,  as 
I have  said,  an  exceptionally  big  man ; so  when 
I relate  that  he  had  on  a hat  much  too  small  for 
his  massive  head,  and  was  wearing  an  overcoat 
that  had  been  made  for  a man  about  half  his  size, 
it  may  be  imagined  what  he  looked  like.  We 
positively  shrieked  with  laughter  as  he  walked  in, 
but  his  usual  good-humour  had  for  once  deserted 
him,  and  he  did  not  appreciate  our  mirth,  for  we 
soon  realised  that  he  was  in  a towering  rage.  Then 
we  learned  that  the  cloak-room  arrangements  at 
the  Palace  had  completely  broken  down;  that  the 
officials  in  charge  had  quite  lost  their  heads ; and 
that  in  the  end  there  had  been  a wild  scramble  for 
coats  and  hats — and  these  miserable  articles  were 
all  that  he  had  been  able  to  get  in  place  of  his 
“gibus”  and  his  splendid  fur-lined  coat.  No 
wonder  he  was  angry — who  would  not  have  been  ? 

38 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

And  then  he  told  us  that,  to  make  matters  worse, 
one  of  the  men  at  the  vestiaire  had  been  positively 
rude  to  him,  and  that  when  he  had  insisted  that 
this  wretched  garment  and  silly  hat  were  not  what 
he  had  deposited  on  his  arrival,  he  had  actually 
replied  “ that  he  was  sorry  but  he  could  not  give 
him  a fur-lined  coat  as  he  hadn’t  a single  one  left ! 

It  was  only  on  talking  the  subject  over  some 
days  after  that  the  humour  in  the  man’s  response 
occurred  to  us.  Meanwhile  the  fur-lined  coat  and 
opera  hat  were  never  found,  so  it  turned  out  a 
very  expensive  evening’s  amusement.  This  con- 
tretemps naturally  spoiled  what  would  otherwise 
have  been  a most  interesting  experience. 


39 


CHAPTER  IV 


I am  passed  for  the  atelier — My  entrde — The  Massier — Paying 
my  footing — An  impromptu  picnic — “ Ragging  ” the 
nouveau — A duel  with  paint-brushes — The  corvee — A 
little  unpleasantness — A studio  procession  in  the  Quartier — 
Models — The  visits  of  the  “ Patron  ” — An  amusing  inci- 
dent— Sympathy  between  the  artist  and  his  pupils — 
Chrome’s  kindly  nature. 


I HAD  been  in  the  antique  about  three  months  when 
I was  passed  for  the  atelier,  and  I well  recollect 
with  what  feelings  of  elation  I made  my  way  up- 
stairs. Stott  did  not  get  in  till  afterwards,  but  he 
looked  on  himself  as  a landscape  painter,  so  was 
not  particularly  concerned  about  it — as  figure 
painting  with  him  would  be  but  an  accessary  to 
his  Art.  The  three  studios  of  the  professors  of 
painting  at  the  Ecole  were  then  situated  in  a 
spacious  corridor  on  the  first  etage — Cabanel’s 
was  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  then  came  Leh- 
mann’s, and  lastly  Gerome’s. 

It  was  about  half-past  eight  in  the  morning  when 
I somewhat  timidly  knocked  at  the  big  door — 
there  was  a terrific  noise  going  on  inside  which 
perhaps  accounted  for  my  receiving  no  reply.  I 
knocked  again  and  again ; still  no  reply,  so  I 

40 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

turned  the  handle  and  boldly  entered.  From 
what  I had  been  told  I expected  to  see  something 
out  of  the  common,  but  the  scene  that  confronted 
me  quite  took  me  aback.  It  was  a very  large 
studio  lighted  by  an  immense  window  on  one  side. 
F acing  this  was  a platform  on  which  a nude  female 
model  was  posing;  around  the  platform  forty  or 
fifty  students,  in  blouses  and  every  conceivable 
description  of  fantastic  attire,  were  working  in  a 
big  semi-circle — those  nearest  the  model  were 
seated  on  low  stools  making  drawings,  behind  them 
were  others  painting  seated  at  their  easels,  the 
next  row  were  seated  on  stools  somewhat  higher, 
and  the  outside  row  was  standing.  The  walls 
were  covered  with  clever  caricatures,  and  over  all 
was  a thick  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke. 

As  I entered,  a lusty  chorus  was  in  full  swing, 
and  for  a few  seconds  my  presence  was  not  noticed 
as  I stood  irresolute  just  inside  the  door;  then 
suddenly  someone  spotted  me  and  yelled  out,  in 
a voice  that  drowned  the  chorus,  “ Un  nouveau.” 
In  an  instant  the  singing  ceased,  and  then  arose 
the  most  deafening  uproar  I have  ever  heard — it 
was  as  though  Bedlam  had  been  let  loose.  Up 
they  all  jumped  and  fairly  shrieked  at  me.  For  a 
few  moments  I could  not  make  out  what  was  said, 
but  it  was  evidently  not  of  an  unfriendly  nature, 
so  I smiled  and  tried  to  look  as  pleasant  as  possible. 
Then  someone  approached  me,  and  I explained 
that  I was  a nouveau,  and  he  then  with  a low 

41 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

mock  obeisance  begged  to  have  the  honour  of  pre- 
senting me  to  the  Massier — so  I followed  him  to 
where  a big  fellow  with  a long  beard  was  seated 
at  an  easel.  All  the  while  the  other  students  were 
crowding  round,  keeping  up  a deafening  row,  and 
making  all  sorts  of  remarks,  mostly  uncomplimen- 
tary, about  my  general  appearance.  I was  gravely 
requested  to  give  in  full  my  name,  age,  nationality, 
place  of  birth,  and  other  details  of  a more  or  less 
intimate  character,  which  the  Massier  proceeded 
with  great  solemnity  to  enter  in  a book  which  he 
evidently  kept  for  the  purpose.  This  being  done, 
he  then  put  to  me  a question  as  to  my  willingness 
to  comply  with  certain  formalities  in  connection 
with  my  entry  to  the  atelier ; these  consisted  in  the 
“ masse  ” — otherwise  in  paying  my  footing,  i.e. 
standing  treat  to  the  studio.  For  this  I was  quite 
prepared,  as  I had  been  told  beforehand  what 
would  be  expected  of  me — so  I replied  that  noth- 
ing would  give  me  greater  pleasure,  at  which 
another  terrific  yell  burst  forth  from  the  crowd. 

“ Sacre  Anglais,  c’est  tres-bien  cela,”  they  cried. 
“ What  would  you  like  to  pay  for  ? ” I was  then 
asked. 

“ Everything  that  is  usual,”  I replied. 

“ Des  saucissons,  sardines,  du  fromage,  du  fruit, 
du  pain,  and  du  beurre — du  vin,  du  cassis,  des 
cigarettes  and  des  cigars,”  was  decided  on  ; a rough 
calculation  of  how  much  would  be  required,  and 
the  two  last  nouveaux  were  deputed  to  go  out  with 

42 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

me  to  fetch  all  this  in.  So  out  we  went  together. 
I felt  delighted — it  was  all  so  friendly,  for  I instinc- 
tively felt  that  this  ragging  was  of  the  most  good- 
natured  character,  and  that  it  only  depended  on  me 
for  the  result.  Although  the  Massier  had  with  a 
feeling  of  the  utmost  camaraderie  suggested  the 
amount  of  the  various  items  to  be  brought  in,  they 
all  seemed  such  jolly  good  fellows  that  I ventured 
to  augment  this  considerably,  and  we  returned  to 
the  atelier  positively  laden  with  provisions. 

As  may  be  imagined,  the  yells  that  greeted  our 
return  were  quite  different  to  those  that  had  greeted 
my  arrival.  An  impromptu  picnic,  to  which  the 
model  (without  troubling  to  put  on  any  clothes) 
and  I were  also  invited,  then  followed,  after  which 
work  was  about  to  be  resumed,  when  there  were 
cries  for  a speech  ” from  the  nouveau  ; then  others 
called  out  for  a song ; then  the  clamour  increased 
till  at  last  those  in  favour  of  a song  had  it — so  I was 
told  to  give  them  something  in  English.  IVe  got 
about  as  much  voice  as  a rusty  file,  but  there  was 
no  help  for  it.  I had  to  do  the  best  I could.  I 
was  about  to  start  when  there  were  cries  of  “ On 
the  stove  ” ; so  on  the  stove  I had  to  climb — for- 
tunately it  was  not  alight — then  came  ‘‘  Off  with 
your  clothes.”  Without  hesitating  I laughed  and 
made  a movement  as  though  to  comply,  and 
started  undoing  my  braces  although  the  model  was 
posing  alongside.  Then  someone  exclaimed,  “No 
— no — he’s  far  too  ugly  for  that;  it’s  bad  enough 

43 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

to  have  to  look  upon  him  with  his  clothes  on.’ 
Then  someone  else  replied,  “Yes — quite  true — 
let  him  get  along  with  his  rotten  song  and  then  we 
can  go  on  with  our  work.”  So  perforce  I gave 
them  “ Nancy  Lee,”  and  oh!  the  groans  and  hisses 
it  evoked.  I should  not  have  been  surprised  had 
they  started  throwing  things  at  me. 

Well,  they  let  me  finish  somehow,  and  then 
called  out  “ Assez,”  and  “ Descendez,”  and  “ Tout 
de  meme  il  a bon  caracture  cet  Englisch,”  and 
other  complimentary  remarks,  after  which  I was 
left  in  peace  and  strolled  round  and  chatted  with 
some  men  I already  knew.  They  congratulated 
me  on  getting  off  so  easily,  as  it  often  happened, 
they  told  me,  that  the  nouveau  had  a very  rough 
time,  especially  if  he  showed  signs  of  losing  his 
temper.  The  great  thing  was  to  take  all  the 
ragging  in  good  part  and  to  try  and  realise  that  what 
was  happening  was  what  had  happened  to  every- 
one in  the  atelier  when  he  first  joined.  I have 
not  a particularly  easy  temper,  but  I had  evidently 
hit  it  off  very  well,  as  I was  scarcely  ever  ragged 
or  made  fun  of  after  this,  and  was  not  long  making 
friends  all  round. 

Every  nouveau  however,  did  not  get  off  so  easily 
as  I did,  and  very  often  they  had  to  go  through 
some  thrilling  experiences.  I remember  on  one 
occasion  two  came  to  the  studio  at  the  same  time. 
It  was  a nasty  morning  and  not  much  light  for 
work,  so  the  crowd  was  in  a mischief-making  mood, 

44 


“in  a vkky  few  minutes  they  weue  both  covered  with 

COLOUR  AND  IN  A HIDEOUS  MESS.’’ 


I 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

which  was  aggravated  by  the  two  nouveaux  being 
either  too  poor  or  mean  to  pay  a decent  bienvenue. 

“ They  must  fight  a duel  with  paint-brushos,” 
someone  called  out. 

This  was  immediately  agreed  to,  and  the  fellows, 
in  spite  of  their  protests,  were  made  to  strip  to  the 
waist ; then  two  brushes  were  tied  on  to  two  mahl- 
sticks  and  dipped  into  Prussian  blue  and  vermilion, 
and  they  were  ordered  to  go  for  each  other,  which 
they  did  willy-nilly.  In  a very  few  minutes  they 
were  both  covered  with  colour,  and  in  a hideous 
mess.  Considering  the  very  slight  accommoda- 
tion for  washing  in  the  studio,  it  may  be  imagined 
the  state  they  must  have  been  in  when  they 
got  home. 

There  were,  however,  certain  duties  or 
“ corvees  ” of  a more  or  less  irksome  nature  which 
every  nouveau  had  to  do,  whether  he  liked  it  or 
not ; these  were  to  “ fag  ” for  the  anciens,  such  as 
fetching  cigarettes  or  tobacco,  see  there  was  a 
supply  of  savonnoir  for  washing  the  brushes — and 
even  to  wash  the  brushes  if  asked  to  do  so — and 
to  take  the  towels  to  the  washerwoman  and  bring 
back  the  clean  ones  every  week.  These  corvees 
had  to  be  done  till  there  was  a fresh  “ nouveau  — 
then  he  in  his  turn  took  them  on.  One  might, 
therefore,  have  to  do  them  for  several  months. 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  get  into  the  ways  of 
the  atelier — and  in  a very  short  time  I felt  quite  at 
home  in  my  new  surroundings.  The  camaraderie 

45 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

that  existed  was  absolutely  delightful,  and  I can 
only  recall  one  instance  of  bad  feeling  or  quarrel- 
ling the  whole  time  I was  there — and  that  curiously 
enough  concerned  me.  It  happened  this  way. 
An  American  student,  who  for  some  reason  or 
other  had  always  picked  me  out  as  the  butt  for 
any  joke  or  any  senseless  remark  he  might  think 
of,  was  working  next  to  me  one  morning  when  he 
started  his  usual  tactics,  to  the  great  amusement 
of  the  atelier.  I took  it  good-humouredly  as  was 
my  wont,  as  it  takes  a good  deal  to  rouse  me,  till 
at  last  he  got  so  personally  offensive  that  I could 
stand  it  no  longer;  so  putting  down  my  palette  I 
turned  to  him  and  said  very  quietly,  as  I hate  a 
scene,  “ I have  had  enough  of  your  blasted  insinu- 
ations ; come  down  into  the  courtyard  and  we  will 
see  who  is  the  better  man.”  I was  white  with 
rage,  and  he  could  see  it. 

He  remained  speechless  for  a second,  and  then 
said  in  a strained  tone  of  voice,  “ I don’t  understand 
you.  Price.” 

Well,  you  come  downstairs  and  you  jolly  soon 
will,”  I replied,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

To  my  surprise  then,  for  he  wao  a very  big  fellow, 
he  burst  into  a husky  sort  of  laugh  and  called  out 
to  the  crowd  in  French,  “ Here’s  Price  lost  his 
temper  because  I have  chaffed  him,  and  he  wants 
me  to  go  out  and  fight  him.” 

“ Well,  you’ve  got  to  do  that  or  apologise,”  I 
replied  at  the  top  of  my  voice. 

46 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Well,  put  it  right  here,”  he  said,  offering  me 
his  hand,  “ I meant  no  offence,  old  man.” 

Of  course  this  ended  the  incident  and  we  were 
always  good  friends  afterwards. 

When  I joined  Gerome’s  there  were  many 
youngsters  painting  there  who  have  made  big 
names  since — as,  for  instance,  Dagnan-Bouveret, 
Buland,  Bompard,  Helleu,  La  Gandara,  Harrison, 
Swan ; whilst  in  the  other  studios  were  Solomon 
J.  Solomon,  La  Thangue  and  Stanhope  Forbes; 
but  the  great  majority  failed  to  realise  their  early 
promise,  for  one  has  not  heard  of  them  since.  A 
talent  d’atelier  does  not  necessarily  mean  success 
later,  and  many  after  a short  struggle  gave  up  Art 
for  commerce.  It  was  a hard-working,  enthusiastic 
crowd,  full  of  animal  spirits,  and  there  was  never  a 
dull  moment  at  any  time — in  fact  the  most  pleasant 
hours  of  the  day  were  those  spent  during  the 
morning  in  the  studio.  Everyone  was  known  by 
some  nickname,  some  of  these  being  very  funny 
indeed.  I got  to  be  christened  VelocipMe  IV. 
from  the  fancied  resemblance  to  the  late  Prince 
Imperial  I have  already  mentioned. 

Practical  jokes  were  of  everyday  occurrence,  and 
were  often  of  a character  which  displayed  well  the 
inventive  genius  of  their  authors.  I remember 
one  in  particular,  which  is  well  worth  recounting. 
It  was  a dark,  unpleasant  sort  of  morning,  when 
work  was  scarcely  possible ; we  had  been  filling  in 
the  time  with  singing,  boxing,  wrestling,  and  what- 

47 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 
not,  whilst  hoping  it  would  clear  up  and  get  light 
again.  Suddenly  someone  suggested  a procession 
through  the  Quartier ; no  sooner  said  than  done — 
the  tallest  student  dressed  himself  up  as  a bishop,  . 
and  with  a clean  white  blouse  and  paper  mitre 
he  looked  quite  the  real  thing.  The  rest  of  us 
got  ourselves  up  as  choristers — carrying  lighted 
candles  stuck  in  long  paper  rolls — priests,  and 
other  officials.  There  was  even  a church  beadle 
in  cocked  hat.  Then  we  started,  down  the  stairs, 
through  the  courtyard,  then  round  it,  solemnly 
entoning  an  imitation  chant ; then  out  through  the 
big  gates  into  the  street,  to  the  immense  amuse- 
ment of  the  passers-by.  With  slow  footsteps  we 
went  through  the  Passage  des  Beaux  Arts  into  the 
Rue  de  Seine,  then  back  by  the  Rue  Jacob  and 
the  Rue  Bonaparte.  It  may  have  been  sacri- 
legious, but  the  Church  was  never  held  in  much 
respect  in  the  atelier,  and  certainly  it  was  im- 
mensely funny  as  a skit.  The  most  curious  part 
of  it,  and  what  struck  me  most,  I remember,  was 
that  the  guardians  of  the  Ecole,  and  even  the  very 
sergents  de  ville,  all  smiled  and  entered  into  the 
joke ; we  were  not  interfered  with  in  the  least, 
although  the  traffic  was  held  up  while  we  passed. 

There  was  a fresh  model  every  week — always 
the  nude,  that  goes  without  saying — male  and 
female  alternately — and  the  engaging  and  selec- 
tion was  generally  left  in  the  hands  of  the  Massier, 
who  was  the  recognised  head  of  the  atelier;  but 

48 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

the  pose  was  decided  on  by  the  majority  of  the 
anciens  when  the  model  came  on  the  Monday 
morning.  The  models  presented  themselves  once 
a month  or  so — although  on  any  Monday  morning 
they  could  show  themselves  if  they  were  not  already 
known  to  the  atelier ; sometimes  as  many  as  a dozen 
would  be  waiting,  and  so  as  not  to  waste  time,  they 
would  undress  in  the  corner  and  come  up  in  batches 
on  to  the  platform — old,  young,  male  and  female, 
and  all  completely  nude.  One  got  quite  accus- 
tomed to  it.  The  scene  was  very  curious,  and  at 
first  put  me  in  mind  of  a slave  market ; afterwards 
one  got  satiated,  as  it  were,  with  the  nude,  and  the 
more  especially  as  the  women  were  seldom  of  ex- 
ceptionally prepossessing  appearance.  The  men 
were  mostly  Italians,  and  of  course  all  were  profess- 
ional models  and  well  known  in  the  various  studios. 
If  a girl  wanted  to  become  a model,  and  happened 
to  be  really  pretty  and  had  a good  figure,  there 
was  no  necessity  for  her  to  sit  at  the  Ecole — she 
could  easily  get  all  the  work  she  wanted  privately ; 
but  of  this  more  anon. 

Work  commenced  at  an  unusually  early  hour 
judging  from  the  English  standpoint — seven 
o’clock  in  the  summer  and  eight  in  the  winter. 
The  seance  lasted  four  hours,  and  there  was  a rest 
for  the  model  of  five  minutes  exactly  in  every 
hour. 

There  was  scarcely  ever  a moment’s  silence  all 
the  time — songs,  badinage,  and  wit  without  cessa- 

49  D 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

tion,  and  hard  work  notwithstanding.  There  was 
no  necessity  to  go  out  for  anything  in  the  shape  of 
paints  or  materials,  as  old  Chabot  of  the  colour 
shop  in  the  Rue  Jacob  used  to  come  round  of  a 
morning  with  a case  of  brushes  and  colours,  and 
would  bring  one  in  canvases  or  paper.  The 
“ Patron’s  ” visits  took  place  on  Wednesdays  and 
Saturdays,  and  as  soon  as  he  entered  he  would 
salute  us  smilingly  with  a “ Bonjour,  mes  amis,” 
to  which  we  all  replied,  ‘‘  Bonjour,  Monsieur  ” ; 
then  there  was  dead  silence  whilst  he  made  his 
way  round  the  studio  from  pupil  to  pupil — sitting 
down  in  front  of  the  canvases  or  drawings,  and 
giving  friendly  and  valuable  advice.  It  was  all 
so  delightfully  informal,  yet  withal  so  thoroughly 
in  keeping  with  the  traditions  of  the  Ecole,  that  a 
word  of  encouragement  from  the  great  artist  put 
one  on  good  terms  with  oneself  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  made  one  feel  life  was  really  worth  living. 
After  he  had  done  his  round  of  the  studio,  an  easel 
would  be  placed  near  the  wall,  and  everyone  could 
submit  sketches  or  other  work  done  outside  for 
his  criticism.  This  was  the  most  trying  ordeal  of 
all,  as  his  remarks  on  these  efforts,  though  always 
good-natured,  were  not  necessarily  of  a compli- 
mentary nature — and  often  were  received  with 
roars  of  laughter  by  the  crowd  of  students,  at  the 
expense  of  the  unlucky  recipient. 

I remember  one  occasion  particularly,  because  I 
happened  to  be  the  victim.  I had  painted,  or  to 

50 


“used  to  come  round  of  a morning  with  a case  of 

BRUSHES  AND  COLOURS.’’ 


Ij.  OF  ILL  LIB, 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

be  more  correct  had  attempted  to  paint  a small 
portrait  in  the  open  air  of  my  neighbour  in  the 
Rue  de  Seine — if  I remember  rightly  he  was  sup- 
posed to  be  a Hungarian  nobleman — and  he  was 
so  pleased  with  the  result  that  he  had  it  framed 
regardless  of  expense,  and  with  his  coat  of  arms 
on  the  top.  I brought  it  to  the  studio  to  show 
Gerome  and  get  his  opinion  on  it,  as  it  was  my 
earliest  effort  of  portraiture  and  I was  rather  proud 
of  my  achievement.  It  was  in  its  gorgeous  frame, 
which  gave  it  an  unduly  pretentious  appearance, 
for  it  was  unusual  to  exhibit  one’s  work  in  such  a 
pompous  style ; besides  which,  the  painting  itself 
was  hardly  worth  a frame  of  any  description.  It 
was  duly  placed  on  the  easel.  After  looking  at  it 
attentively  for  a few  seconds,  Gerome  remarked 
with  a humorous  twinkle  in  his  eye,  “ J’aime  assez 
le  cadre  ” (I  rather  like  the  frame).  That  was  all. 
The  crowd  was  fairly  convulsed  with  mirth,  and  I 
took  it  down  from  the  easel  with  rather  less  assur- 
ance than  I had  placed  it  there,  and  feeling  very 
small  indeed. 

Still  it  did  no  harm,  this  uncomplimentary 
criticism,  as  it  took  the  conceit  out  of  one  a bit, 
and  after  all  there  was  nothing  unkind  or  unneces- 
sarily cutting  about  it. 

I always  used  to  think  that  it  must  have  been  in 
similar  fashion  that  the  great  masters  of  the  Middle 
Ages  were  en  rapport  with  their  pupils,  and  it  was 
doubtless  this  fraternal  cordiality  that  in  no  small 

51 


UWiVtKSiTY  OF  JUINOI 
URRARY 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

degree  helped  to  develop  the  genius  of  the  old 
Italian  and  Dutch  schools.  It  is  the  delightful 
touch  of  human  nature,  the  bond  of  sympathy 
between  the  great  artist  and  the  humblest  of  his 
pupils,  that  makes  the  student  life  of  Paris  so 
attractive,  and  which  apparently  cannot  exist  in 
prosaic  matter-of-fact  England. 

Gerome  was  far  and  away  the  most  popular  of 
all  the  professors  of  painting  in  Paris  in  those 
days,  and  had  his  atelier  been  double  the  size  it 
would  have  still  been  overcrowded,  so  keen  was 
the  desire  to  be  accepted  as  his  eleve.  With 
those  who  were  earnest,  serious  workers  he  was 
always  a sympathetic  and  encouraging  adviser, 
but  gare  aux  flaneurs — for  those  he  had  no  use. 
Beneath  the  somewhat  gruff  and  uncompromising 
exterior  was  a kindly  nature  that  made  him  be 
regarded  with  positive  affection  by  his  pupils.  The 
following  touching  little  story  will  convey  some 
idea  of  the  man  as  apart  from  the  professor. 

A young  fellow  had  been  accepted  by  him 
as  an  eleve  and  was  passing  the  usual  period  of 
probation  in  the  antique  when  he  showed  such 
exceptional  talent  that  Gerome  told  him  to  go 
up  into  the  atelier  forthwith.  Shortly  after,  the 
maitre  was  paying  his  weekly  visit  to  the  antique, 
when  he  found  him  still  working  there. 

“ I thought  I told  you  to  go  upstairs  and  work 
from  the  life,”  he  said  rather  sharply — for  he  liked 
his  pupils  to  do  what  he  told  them  to  do. 

52 


. L. 


J 


OKROMK. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Yes,  Monsieur,  I know  you  did,  but ” 

“ Well,  and  why  didn’t  you  ? ” 

The  youth  turned  colour,  looked  very  confused, 
then  after  hesitating  a moment  tears  came  into  his 
eyes  and  he  replied,  “To  tell  you  the  truth.  Mon- 
sieur— I did  not  expect  to  get  out  of  the  antique 
so  soon,  and  my  parents  are  only  poor  work-people, 
and  they  are  doing  the  best  they  can  for  me,  and 
I don’t  like  to  ask  them  for  the  money  to  pay  my 
masse  yet  a while.  I should  not  like  to  go  up 
into  the  atelier  and  be  different  to  the  others, 
so  I thought  I would  wait  a little  longer;  and  I 
hope  you  will  forgive  me,  sir,  for  not  doing  what 
you  told  me,”  he  added,  and  the  tears  were  stream- 
ing down  his  face. 

Gerome  was  silent  for  a few  seconds,  then  in 
an  altered  voice  he  said  kindly,  and  patting  the 
boy  on  the  shoulder,  “ Mon  ami,  why  did  you  not 
tell  me  this  ? I expect  my  eleves  to  confide  in  me, 
since  I am  interested  in  their  welfare.”  Then  as 
he  turned  to  go  away  he  asked  abruptly,  “ Where 
are  you  living  ? ” 

The  boy  gave  his  address,  wondering  what  that 
had  to  do  with  it. 

The  following  day  a letter  reached  him ; it  con- 
tained a mandat  de  poste  for  one  hundred  francs, 
and  a few  lines  from  the  maitre  telling  him  to  start 
work  at  once  in  the  atelier. 

That  youth  became  one  of  Gerome’s  most  dis- 
tinguished pupils  and  made  a big  name  for  himself. 

53 


CHAPTER  V 


D6jeuner  in  the  Quartier — Thirions — Curious  incident  in  the 
Rue  du  Four — Arlequins  k 2 sous — A joke  on  the 
waiter — Copying  at  the  Louvre — Julians — The  atelier  in 
the  Rue  d’Uz^s. 

We  generally  went  to  dejeuner  as  soon  as  the 
model  had  gone,  for  one  felt  pretty  hungry  by 
then,  after  getting  up  so  early.  There  were  lots 
of  little  restaurants  in  the  neighbourhood  which 
would  be  crowded  at  this  hour.  Every  coterie  had 
its  favourite  place  of  reunion — which  was  usually 
selected  for  some  special  reason,  but  generally 
from  motives  of  economy,  for  we  were  not 
fastidious  as  to  the  quality  of  the  food.  Stott  and  I 
and  several  of  the  American  and  English  students 
used  to  meet  at  a place  in  the  Rue  St  Benoit 
where  it  was  quite  good,  considering  how  cheap 
everything  was.  Then  there  was  Thirions  in  the 
Boulevard  St  Germain,  a very  quaint  and  old- 
fashioned  little  place,  reputed  to  have  been 
favoured  by  the  presence  of  no  less  a personage 
than  Thackeray  when  he  was  a student  at  the 
Beaux  Arts.  It  had  a certain  renown  in  conse- 
quence, though  I don’t  think  the  food  was  any  the 
better  for  it. 


54 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

I remember  a curious  incident  that  occurred  at 
a small  restaurant  in  the  Rue  du  Four,  where  we 
used  to  feed  sometimes.  It  conveys  a good  idea 
of  the  rough-and-ready  manners  of  the  Quartier. 
We  were  rather  later  than  usual  for  lunch  one  day 
and  there  were  only  a few  students  in  the  place, 
as  dejeuner  was  practically  over  by  one  o’clock. 
We  were  nearly  finished  when  to  our  amazement 
the  door  opened  and  two  men  entered  carrying  a 
large  coffin  on  their  shoulders ; with  the  utmost 
gravity  they  passed  slowly  through  the  room  with 
their  grim  burden  and  made  their  way  up  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  “ Salon  pour  Noces  ” on  the  first 
floor.  The  lugubriousness  of  the  unwonted  spec- 
tacle would  have  probably  horrified  older  folk  than 
ourselves,  but  to  an  etudiant,  as  to  the  proverbial 
Sappeur,  nothing  is  sacred.  After  the  first  mo- 
ment of  stupefaction  facetious  remarks  were  heard 
— someone  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  a client  of 
the  house  who  had  died  suddenly  after  dining  there, 
to  which  another  replied  that  it  was  not  that  at  all,  it 
was  the  cold  meat  for  the  assiette  a I’Anglaise  they 
were  bringing  from  the  charcutier’s.  The  manager, 
who  evidently  felt  that  some  explanation  was  due 
to  the  customers,  came  forward  and  told  us  that 
he  regretted  to  inform  us  that  the  proprietress  had 
died  suddenly,  and  as  there  was  no  other  entrance 
to  the  house  but  that  leading  through  the  restau- 
rant, this  painful  scene  could  not  be  avoided. 
Evidently  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  to  have 

55 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

closed  the  place  for  a couple  of  hours  in  the  after- 
noon would  have  been  the  decent  thing  to  do  under 
the  circumstances. 

Many  of  the  students  went  much  farther  afield, 
even  to  places  as  far  away  as  the  Boulevard  d’Enfer 
— very  eccentric  most  of  them,  though ; there  was 
one  in  particular  where  the  knives  and  forks  and 
spoons  were  chained  to  the  tables,  which  was,  how- 
ever, only  visited  when  one  had  got  to  the  end 
of  one’s  month’s  allowance  and  had  been  more 
extravagant  than  usual. 

There  was  an  old  woman  at  the  Marche  St 
Germain  who  used  to  sell  Arlequins  a 2 sous. 
These  consisted  of  odds  and  ends  of  the  debris 
from  the  restaurants.  These  were  laid  out  in  rows 
of  plates,  and  if  you  got  there  early  you  might  be 
fortunate  enough  to  get  something  tasty,  such  as 
half  a fowl,  or  a nice  piece  of  beef  and  carrots,  but 
it  was  all  a matter  of  luck  what  was  on  the  plates, 
as  the  ingredients  were  mixed  up  anyhow.  The 
old  lady,  though,  wouldn’t  always  let  you  have  the 
plate  you  chose  for  the  two  sous.  “ A non,  mon 
petit,”  I remember  she  would  say,  “ je  ne  peux  pas 
te  ceder  9a  pour  moins  que  3 sous  il  y a du  dindon 
dedans,  mais  tu  auras  une  bonne  croute  avec  ” ; 
and  if  she  was  in  an  extra  generous  mood  you  got 
a large  piece  of  bread,  which  hadn’t  been  kicking 
about  too  much  on  the  ground,  thrown  in.  You 
then  emptied  the  plate  on  to  a newspaper  you  had 
brought  with  you,  and  ate  the  contents  there  and 

56 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

then  whilst  strolling  round  the  market,  finishing 
up  with  a cigarette  and  a two  sous  cup  of  coffee 
at  the  marchand  de  vin  close  by.  One  had  indeed 
to  be  young  and  have  a healthy  appetite  to  tackle 
this  unsavoury  bill  of  fare. 

It  was  a curious  fact  that  the  early  days  of  the 
month — when  one’s  allowance  had  just  arrived — 
were  marked  by  a cheery  optimism  with  regard  to 
expenditure  which  gradually  disappeared  as  the 
succeeding  weeks  wore  on  ; but  the  spirit  of  joking 
was  ever  present,  no  matter  how  low  one’s  funds — 
sometimes  even  at  the  expense  of  the  waiters.  One 
in  particular,  very  silly,  but  always  raising  a laugh. 
Someone  would  ask  when  near  the  end  of  a meal, 
“What  cheese  have  you,  waiter.^”  to  which  of 
course  came  the  reply  enumerating  the  usual  list. 
“ Is  the  camenbert  good  to-day,  waiter  ” 

“ Oh  oui,  Monsieur.” 

“ Nice  and  ripe?  ” 

“ Oui,  Monsieur,  in  fine  condition.” 

“ Very  well  then,  give  me  a piece  of  gruyere.” 
If  the  gargon  did  not  know  us,  the  look  on  his 
face  may  be  imagined. 

In  the  afternoon  after  dejeuner  and  till  it  was 
time  to  go  to  the  Cours  Yvon  I used  to  copy  at 
the  Louvre.  Gerome  always  recommended  this 
as  a method  of  learning  technique,  so  for  some 
months  I followed  his  advice  assiduously  and  got 
to  look  on  Rembrandt  and  Titiens  as  personal 
friends ; but  after  a time  the  old  masters  got  on 

57 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

one’s  nerves,  one  felt  so  insignificant  alongside 
them,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  galleries  was  so 
depressing  that  I decided  that  work  at  a life  class 
would  be  more  cheerful.  At  that  time  there  was 
only  one  studio  where  on  paying  a fee  you  could 
go  and  paint  when  you  chose.  This  was  Julians, 
and  it  had  attained  considerable  celebrity.  It  was 
divided  into  two  ateliers — one  in  the  Rue  Mont- 
martre and  the  other  in  the  Rue  d’Uzes  close  by. 
In  the  Rue  Montmartre  lady  students  were  ad- 
mitted as  pupils,  and,  if  they  chose,  even  when 
nude  male  models  were  posing;  there  were  no 
prejudices  or  false  modesty.  It  was  all  considered 
Art — with  a big  A.  I shall  never  forget  my 
impressions  on  going  there  for  the  first  time  one 
afternoon.  The  model,  a big  brawny  individual 
in  a state  of  nudity,  was  taking  a rest,  seated  by 
the  stove  smoking  a cigarette ; around  the  studio 
were  groups  of  students,  male  and  female — some 
of  the  latter  quite  young  girls,  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing unconcernedly.  To  me  the  scene  was  a sur- 
prising one,  but  to  them  it  was  only  part  of  the 
day’s  work  evidently. 

In  the  Rue  d’Uzes  there  were  no  women  stu- 
dents, and  the  fees  were  considerably  less,  perhaps 
for  that  reason ; so  as  most  of  my  particular  friends 
from  the  Ecole  went  there,  I joined  also.  It  made 
a very  pleasant  change  from  the  Louvre,  where 
there  was  an  impression  of  hard  work ; it  was  a 
casual  go-as-you-please  sort  of  place,  where  there 

58 


THE  LOU\-RE,  WHERE  THERE  WAS  A\  ATMOSPHERE  OF  HARD  WORK. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

was  no  Professor,  but  where  you  managed  to  do 
a lot  of  good  studies  without  undue  effort.  Men 
would  stroll  in  with  their  paint-box  and  a canvas, 
and  if  they  thought  the  model  worth  painting  they 
would  stay — if  not,  they’d  have  a chat  and  smoke 
and  go  away.  It  was  probably  this  casual  state  of 
affairs  that  induced  a number  of  very  clever  men 
to  come  and  work  at  the  Rue  d’Uzes  in  the  after- 
noon. There  was  of  course  no  ragging  or  paying 
one’s  footing  as  at  the  Ecole,  but  there  was  the 
same  spirit  of  camaraderie — though  perhaps  in  a 
somewhat  modified  degree,  as  the  majority  of  the 
men  were  considerably  older  than  those  at  the 
Ecole,  and  there  was  therefore  a tendency  to  divide 
up  into  cliques.  Perhaps  on  account  of  the 
inartistic  character  of  the  neighbourhood — the  Rue 
Montmartre  is  a wholesale  business  centre — the 
atelier  lost  a good  deal  of  its  Bohemianism — as, 
for  instance,  if  one  felt  like  going  out  for  a cup 
of  coffee  there  was  only  one  place  conveniently 
near,  and  that  was  the  Brasserie  Muller  on  the 
Boulevard  Poissoniere,  which  had  a back  entrance 
opposite  the  studio,  but  it  was  very  bourgeois  and 
not  in  the  least  like  the  cafes  in  the  Quartier. 


59 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Quart ier  at  night — The  Boulevard  St  Michel — Petites 
ouvri^res — A good  joke  and  its  denouement — Practical 
joking  in  the  streets — The  woman  on  the  roof — Searching 
for  a louis — ^The  caf^s  in  the  Quartier — Bullier — A con- 
juring trick — Joke  on  the  cocher — Fun  at  the  waxwork 
show. 

It  must  not  be  inferred,  however,  that  it  was  all 
work  and  no  play  with  us,  for  we  managed  to  put 
in  a good  time  now  and  then  of  an  evening  after 
work,  in  spite  of  a strictly  limited  exchequer — 
though  this  of  course  was  more  likely  to  happen 
at  the  beginning  of  the  month,  for  the  reason 
already  mentioned.  Still  it  really  didn’t  require 
to  have  such  a very  well-lined  pocket  to  find 
amusement  in  the  Quartier  at  night.  First  and 
foremost  there  was  the  Boulevard  St  Michel,  that 
happy  hunting-ground  where  one  was  pretty  sure, 
if  it  was  fine,  to  come  across  some  pals  from  the 
atelier,  or  perhaps  pick  up  some  pretty  girl  who’d 
come  and  have  coffee  with  you  in  one  of  the  many 
places  around.  The  petites  ouvrieres  in  those 
days  were  neither  difficiles  or  extravangantes — the 
type  is  a bit  altered  since,  from  all  accounts. 
There  was  rather  a good  joke  which  often  served 

6o 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

to  while  away  an  evening — it  had  at  any  rate  the 
merit  of  originality.  Supposing,  for  instance,  after 
dinner  we  were  three  or  four  together  and  nothing 
particular  to  do,  we’d  separate  at  the  corner  of  one 
of  the  big  thoroughfares — the  Rue  des  E coles  or 
Boulevard  St  Germain,  for  instance — and  each  one 
take  a different  direction,  and  agree  to  meet  later, 
say  in  an  hour’s  time,  at  some  cafe  we  knew ; but 
the  conditions  were  that  whoever  turned  up  with- 
out a girl  had  to  stand  drinks  all  round;  and  to 
make  it  more  amusing,  it  was  understood  that  an 
old  acquaintance  should  not  count.  It  may  be 
guessed  how  funny  it  often  was  when  we  all  met, 
as  arranged,  and  how  sometimes  there  were  some 
curious  developments,  as  there  was  generally 
not  much  difficulty  in  finding  a girl  in  the  Latin 
Quarter. 

These  adventures,  however,  were  not  always 
unattended  with  risk,  for  there  were  many  rough 
characters  about,  and  I believe  that  it  was  the 
knowledge  of  this  that  made  them  the  more  attrac- 
tive. I remember  one  occasion,  however,  which 
might  easily  have  had  an  extremely  unpleasant 
ending,  so  far  as  I was  concerned.  Several  of  us 
had  dined  together  and  had  separated  on  one  of 
these  expeditions.  I had  chosen  the  Rue  des 
E coles  as  my  hunting-ground,  and  had  not  been 
alone  many  minutes  before  I saw  an  exceedingly 
smart  young  woman  get  out  of  the  tramway  and 
come  towards  me ; she  was  as  good-looking  as  she 

6i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

was  well-dressed.  “ By  Jove,”  I said  to  myself, 
“ if  I can  only  walk  into  the  cafe  with  that,  the 
boys  will  be  a bit  astonished.”  She  passed  but 
took  no  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I had  been  part 
of  the  pavement.  However,  I was  not  so  easily 
put  off ; I determined  to  follow  it  up — so  right 
along  the  Rue  des  Ecoles  we  went.  At  length 
she  turned  up  a quiet  side  street.  “ Now  is  my 
chance,”  thought  I,  so  dashing  after  her  I caught 
her  up  and,  raising  my  hat,  said  very  poHtely,  “ I 
believe  I have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you, 
Madame.” 

She  half  turned  round  and,  looking  at  me 
steadily,  said  in  the  coldest  of  tones,  “ That  then  is 
the  reason  you  have  been  following  me  all  this  time. 
Monsieur;  please  do  me  the  pleasure  then  to 
accompany  me  to  the  corner  of  the  street  and  I will 
introduce  you  to  my  husband  who,  I see,  is  waiting 
for  me  there.” 

I felt  I had  made  a mistake  indeed,  and  that 
the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  beat  a retreat  with  as 
much  dignity  as  possible,  so  again  raising  my  hat 
I said  in  my  best  French,  “ I perceive,  Madame, 
I am  in  error — please  accept  my  apologies,”  and 
with  that  turned  on  my  heels  and  walked  away. 

After  this,  as  may  be  imagined,  I felt  in  no 
mood  for  further  adventure  that  evening,  so  made 
my  way  back  to  the  cafe  where  we  had  all  arranged 
to  meet,  and  gradually  my  friends  turned  up,  and 
all  had  found  a companion.  I explained  as  the 

62 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

reason  for  my  being  alone  that  I had  had  no  luck, 
which  was  literally  true. 

Now  for  the  denouement,  which  was  almost 
dramatic.  There  was  only  one  of  us  who  had  not 
yet  put  in  an  appearance,  and  we  were  beginning 
to  wonder  what  had  become  of  him,  for  it  was 
getting  late,  when  the  door  of  the  cafe  opened  and 
in  he  walked,  accompanied  by  the  very  girl  I had 
followed  along  the  Rue  des  Ecoles.  I shall  never 
forget  her  look  of  astonishment  when  she  espied 
me  seated  at  the  table  her  newly  found  friend 
was  bringing  her  to,  but  she  gave  no  other  sign 
of  recognition.  We  were  all  introduced  to  the 
various  ladies,  as  was  customary  on  such  occasions, 
though  of  course  we  never  let  the  little  dears  know 
that  their  being  with  us  was  the  result  of  a wager — 
and  I fancied  I detected  a satirical  smile  on  her  face 
when  it  came  to  our  turn  to  be  presented  to  each 
other.  I need  scarcely  add  that  I kept  this  adven- 
ture to  myself,  and  I don’t  think  she  told  our  friend 
about  it.  Curiously  enough,  they  were  together 
for  quite  a long  while  after  that;  and  I often 
wondered  if  their  meeting  that  evening  had  really 
been  purely  accidental,  or  if  he  was  the  “ husband  ” 
she  had  the  appointment  with. 

There  was  endless  joking  in  the  streets  at  all 
times,  day  and  night,  and  some  of  these  very 
laughable.  As,  for  instance,  one  which  was  known 
as  the  pas  militaire.  Four  or  five  of  us  would 
perhaps  be  walking  along  some  back  street  late  at 

63 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

night  when  we’d  notice  some  individual  walking 
ahead  with  a swaggering  sort  of  step,  as  often 
happens.  We’d  immediately  start  whistling  a 
march  and  all  get  into  Indian  file,  gradually 
closing  up  behind  him.  Of  course  his  first  idea 
would  be  to  change  his  pace,  so  as  not  to  appear 
to  be  one  of  us,  but  as  soon  as  he  did,  then  we 
altered  the  time  of  the  march  so  that  he  was  obliged 
to  keep  in  step  with  us.  If  he  crossed  the  street, 
as  he  probably  would,  we  would  do  likewise,  still 
keeping  up  the  tune;  so  at  last  he  found  himself 
marching,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  at  the  head 
of  a procession.  This  would  continue  till  he 
reached  the  main  thoroughfare  again,  when  we 
would  leave  him  with  a cheer.  Only  once  I 
recollect  a man  losing  his  temper,  but  when  he 
was  asked  Que  voulez  vous.  Monsieur — on  n’est 
done  pas  libre  de  marcher  comme  Ton  veut  ? ” he 
thought  better  of  it — besides,  there  were  six  of  us. 

One  afternoon  I and  a friend  were  standing 
talking  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du  Dragon  when 
we  were  joined  by  an  awfully  amusing  little  chap, 
who  was  always  the  life  of  our  party ; he  stood 
talking  to  us  for  a few  minutes  about  nothing  in 
particular,  without  a suggestion  of  a joke,  when 
all  of  a sudden  he  called  out,  “ Mon  Dieu,  look  up 
there,”  pointing  to  the  roof  of  a house  opposite. 
We  looked,  but  there  was  nothing  unusual  to  be 
seen ; but  his  gesture  and  exclamation  had  been 
noticed  by  a passer-by  and  he  stopped  to  look  up. 

64 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

This  was  all  he  wanted.  “ Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,” 
almost  shrieked  our  funny  man,  working  himself 
up  into  a state  of  much  excitement,  “ she’ll  fall 
off  the  roof — look  there  she  goes  behind  those 
chimneys ; something  must  be  done  to  save  her — 
look — she  nearly  slipped  that  time — oh!  I can’t 
stand  here  and  look  at  it — it’s  too  awful,”  and  so 
on,  and  began  to  wring  his  hands  and  moan. 

By  this  time  a crowd  had  begun  to  collect,  and 
everyone  was  gazing  up ; people  opened  their 
windows  and  looked  out,  wondering  what  all  the 
excitement  was  about.  My  friend  and  I stood 
by,  keeping  our  countenances  with  difficulty;  it 
wouldn’t  have  done  to  give  the  joke  away — besides 
the  funny  man  might  have  got  hurt.  Casual 
people  in  the  streets  don’t  like  being  made  fools 
of.  In  a few  minutes  the  thoroughfare  was  con- 
gested, and  the  traffic  blocked.  I asked  someone 
who  was  standing  near  in  the  crowd  if  he  could 
tell  me  what  was  the  matter ; without  hesitation  he 
told  me  that  a man  who  lived  on  the  fourth  floor 
of  the  house  was  trying  to  murder  his  maitresse, 
and  that  she  had  escaped  from  him  on  to  the  roof, 
and  that  the  police  had  just  gone  to  fetch  the  fire- 
men and  a ladder  to  get  her  down. 

That  was  enough;  I passed  the  hint  to  my 
friends  and  we  discreetly  came  away.  This  same 
little  chap  had  quite  a gift  of  getting  crowds  to 
assemble,  and  all  his  ideas  were  equally  funny. 

Here’s  another  joke  that  he  played  one  evening. 

65  E 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

We  were  passing  through  a quiet  street  leading  on 
to  the  Boulevard,  when  all  of  a sudden,  just  as 
someone  came  along,  he  lit  a match  and  com- 
menced searching  for  something  on  the  pavement ; 
the  passer-by  stopped  casually  and  in  an  aimless 
way  started  looking  also,  without  even  asking  what 
was  lost.  Some  rough-looking  men  came  along 
and  joined  in  the  search ; matches  were  lit  and  a 
regular  hunt  commenced.  Someone  even  pro- 
duced a bit  of  candle.  Everybody  was  looking 
on  the  off-chance  of  finding  something,  which  they 
probably  did  not  intend  to  give  up  if  they  found. 
I can  still  see  the  curious  effect  of  all  these  people 
groping  about  on  the  pavement  and  in  the  gutter 
with  lighted  matches.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
someone  to  ask  our  friend  what  he  was  looking  for. 

“ A louis,”  he  said. 

“ Are  you  sure  you  lost  it  just  here  ? ” 

“ Oh,  I haven’t  lost  one  here,”  he  replied 
casually. 

“ What ! not  lost  one ; then  what  are  you  doing 
with  a lighted  match  ? ” 

“ I’m  looking  for  one.” 

“ Well,  I’ll  be  d d,”  said  the  man,  as  it 

dawned  on  him  it  was  a joke. 

We  did  not  as  a rule  wait  to  see  the  effect  of  the 
jest  on  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  The  bon  bourgeois 
of  the  Quartier  were,  however,  so  accustomed  to 
the  escapades  of  the  students,  that  scarcely  any 
notice  was  taken  of  even  the  most  uproarious  wit  \ 

66 


MY  BOHEMIAM  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

though  I must  add  that  there  was  seldom  any  real 
harm  in  it,  and'  if  any  damage  was  done  they’d 
pay  up  like  gentlemen — as  indeed  most  of  the 
students  were.  There  was  a noticeable  absence 
of  drinking  strong  liquors ; coffee  or  light  beer 
were  the  extent  of  one’s  libations,  and  I don’t 
recollect  seeing  a drunken  etudiant  the  whole  time 
I was  in  the  Quartier — ^whilst  as  to  a drunken 
woman,  I never  saw  one  the  whole  time  I was  in 
Paris.  All  the  fun  and  practical  joking  were  the 
outcome  of  the  exuberance  of  youth  only,  and  the 
police  knew  it  and  treated  it  accordingly. 

As  may  be  imagined,  the  life  in  the  Quartier 
was  very  divided  up,  and  according  to  one’s  means 
one  chose  one’s  cafe  de  preference,  where  one 
would  meet  one’s  pals  of  an  evening ; the  Soufflet, 
La  Source,  Vachette,  and  the  Pantheon  all  had 
their  own  special  clientele,  but  they  were  too 
expensive  and  swagger  for  the  average  etudiant  of 
the  Beaux  Arts,  who  used  to  patronise  the  little 
cafes  round  the  Rue  de  Buci  and  Rue  de  Seine, 
where,  over  bocks  or  mazagrans,  heated,  though 
good-humoured  discussions  on  Art  would  take 
place.  There  was,  of  course,  dancing  at  Bullier 
on  certain  nights,  but  it  was  a bit  too  far  off  to  go 
to  often — and  besides  I always  used  to  think  it 
was  a lot  overrated,  and  the  crowd  there  very 
mixed.  The  idea  of  calling  it  a “ bal  d’etudiants  *’ 
was  to  my  mind  somewhat  a misnomer,  judging 
from  the  class  of  youths  one  saw  there  as  a rule, 

67 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

who  had  no  claim  whatever  to  be  called  students — 
whilst  as  to  the  “ girls  ” who  went  there  alone, 
they  were  nothing,  more  or  less,  than  a lot  of 
common  women.  It  all  resolved  itself  into  a 
question  of  money — “ Combien  me  donneras-tu7  ” 
Chance  of  any  real  adventure  there  was  very 
remote,  as  one  soon  discovered ; still  Bullier  was 
the  only  place  of  its  sort  on  that  side  of  the  river, 
so  it  was  always  pretty  full  on  Saturday  and 
Sunday  nights,  and  there  was  plenty  of  music  and 
life,  and  if  one  went  en  bande  it  was  often  quite 
amusing.  I remember  a very  funny  incident 
occurring  one  night  as  a lot  of  us  were  going 
there. 

We  were  in  high  spirits,  and  larking  and  fooling 
as  usual  when  out  for  a spree.  We  all  got  into 
an  omnibus  to  get  there  quicker.  On  the  way  one 
of  our  number,  who  rather  fancied  himself  as  an 
amateur  conjurer,  began  palming  coins  and  doing 
other  feats  of  legerdemain,  to  the  great  astonish- 
ment of  the  passengers;  then  suddenly  stooping 
down  he  pretended  to  pick  up  a five-franc  piece 
from  the  floor,  at  the  feet  of  a testy-looking  old 
gentleman  seated  opposite,  and  showed  it  to  us  all 
as  though  he  had  been  lucky  enough  to  find  it. 
Of  course  we  knew  the  trick,  but  still  we  all 
laughed.  Not  so  the  old  gentleman — he  called 
the  conductor  and  said  something  to  him,  which 
made  him  come  to  our  friend  and  say  that  all 
property  found  on  the  omnibus  must  be  handed 

68 


“it  was  often  quite  amusing.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

over  to  him,  as  he  had  to  take  it  to  the  office; 
he  would  therefore  ask  him  to  be  good  enough  to 
give  him  the  five-franc  piece  which  he  had  just 
picked  up.  The  look  on  our  friend’s  face  can  be 
imagined,  as  he  was  not  over-blessed  with  five- 
franc  pieces.  In  vain  did  he  protest  it  was  only 
a conjuring  trick;  the  conductor  was  adamant — 
that  could  be  explained  by  him  at  the  office  to  the 
Secretary,  who  could  believe  him  or  not  as  he 
chose;  his,  the  conductor’s  duty  was  plain.  So 
there  was  no  help  for  it — and  so  as  not  to  create 
a scene  we  all  advised  our  friend  to  hand  it  over 
and  claim  it  later  on,  which  he  did.  It  took  him 
six  months  I believe  to  get  it  back,  less  1.50 
for  expenses.  He  gave  up  conjuring  tricks 
after  that. 

But  of  practical  joking  there  was  no  end.  There 
was  one  pleasantry  of  a particularly  idiotic  nature 
which  was  always  successful.  When  several  of 
us  were  together  at  night  we  would  sometimes 
hail  a passing  cab,  and  one  of  us  would  get  in  and 
immediately  slip  out  by  the  opposite  door,  whilst 
the  others  would  engage  the  attention  of  the 
cocher.  There  would  ensue  an  earnest  colloquy 
with  the  man  who  was  apparently  in  the  cab — 
ending  up  perhaps  with  an  earnest  recommendation 
to  take  great  care  of  himself,  not  to  eat  too  much 
tripe,  obey  his  parents,  write  to  us  as  often  as 
possible,  and  so  on,  after  which  we  would 
absolutely  insist  on  paying  his  fare  for  him — the 

69 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

very  least  we  could  do  for  such  an  old  friend. 
Then  with  strong  exhortations  to  the  driver  to  go 
slowly  and  carefully,  as  his  fare  was  very  delicate, 
off  would  go  the  cab  to  some  destination  one 
thought  of  at  the  moment — generally  a distant 
railway  station,  so  as  not  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting 
the  cocher  again.  The  idea  of  the  effect  on  the 
driver  when  he  discovered  his  passenger  was 
missing  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  compensate  us 
for  the  slight  outlay  the  joke  necessitated. 

On  one  occasion  four  of  us  went  to  visit  a big 
waxwork  exhibition  which  had  just  been  opened 
on  the  Boulevard.  It  was  a most  artistically 
arranged  place — the  disposition  of  the  figures 
being  particularly  life-like.  In  one  of  the  galleries 
on  a slightly  raised  platform  with  a red  rope  en- 
circling it  was  a group  representing  some  famous 
musicians  standing  round  a grand  piano  at  which 
Liszt  was  seated  playing  one  of  his  compositions. 
It  was  very  realistic  and  all  the  poses  most  natural 
— it  had  evidently  been  done  by  a very  talented 
artist.  Close  by  the  piano  was  a chair  from  which 
one  of  the  figures  was  supposed  to  have  arisen  to 
lean  over  the  piano.  Our  funny  man  immediately 
saw  his  chance  of  a joke.  With  a glance  round 
to  make  sure  no  one  was  looking,  he  slipped  under 
the  rope  and  seated  himself  in  the  vacant  chair,  in 
a pose  which  harmonised  capitally  with  the  mise 
en  scene.  Although  we  were  always  prepared  for 
anything  humorous  he  might  do,  this  audacity 

70 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

fairly  took  us  aback  for  a moment,  and  we  had 
hastily  to  move  aside  so  as  not  to  be  convulsed 
with  laughter  and  give  the  joke  away.  Fortu- 
nately no  one  was  near  at  the  moment,  not  even 
an  attendant.  Our  friend  sat  as  rigid  as  a lay 
figure,  hat  in  hand,  head  slightly  bowed  down 
in  an  attitude  of  deep  respect,  as  became  a person 
listening  to  a maestro  playing  one  of  his  own  chefs- 
d’oeures.  He  happened  to  be  dressed  in  a black 
suit  of  artistic  cut,  so  somehow  did  not  appear  out 
of  place  in  his  surroundings.  Presently  a party 
of  men  and  women  came  along  and  stood  admiring 
the  group — the  ladies  were  particularly  impressed 
at  its  realism — our  friend  coming  in  for  especial 
praise,  and  receiving  a lot  of  complimentary 
remarks — for  I forgot  to  mention  he  was  an  ex- 
ceptionally good-looking  young  fellow.  At  last 
one  of  the  ladies  said  she  never  could  have  believed 
it  was  possible  to  copy  anything  so  accurately  in 
wax — it  was  positively  life  itself. 

“ I wonder  what  it  feels  like,”  she  said,  and 
slipping  forward  she  furtively  touched  our  friend’s 
hand.  This  was  too  much  for  his  equanimity,  and 
he  burst  out  into  a loud  laugh.  The  woman  gave 
a shriek  of  fright,  and  she  and  her  companions 
drew  back  so  hurriedly  that  they  knocked  over 
a settee  behind  them — whilst  our  friend  quickly 
descended  from  the  platform.  In  a few  seconds, 
however,  with  the  delightful  good-humour  of  the 
French  nation,  as  soon  as  they  realised  the  joke 

71 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

they  all  joined  so  heartily  in  our  laughter  that  an 
attendant  came  along  to  ascertain  what  all  the 
hilarity  was  about;  it  had  not  struck  him  before 
that  there  was  anything  particularly  humorous  in 
the  group  of  great  composers. 


72 


CHAPTER  VII 


My  first  love  affair — Rose — Excursion  to  Meudon — Robinson — 
Fontenay  aux  Roses — A friture  at  Suresnes — La  Gren- 
ouill^e — Amusing  incident  in  a restaurant — Practical 
joke  in  a studio — I leave  for  London — Farewell  dinner 
with  Rose — A last  letter — End  of  my  first  love  affair. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  there  came  to  pass 
something  which  had  a considerable  influence  on 
my  life  for  the  next  few  months,  and  as  a faithful 
chronicler  of  those  Bohemian  days  I must  confess 
that  what  I am  about  to  narrate  was  my  first  love 
affair.  Up  till  then  the  little  “aventures”  I had 
had  in  common  with  all  other  students  were  not 
sufficiently  serious  to  be  worthy  of  being  recorded. 
This  one,  however,  was  of  quite  a different  char- 
acter, as  will  be  seen. 

It  came  about  this  wise.  Stott  and  I had  broken 
out  in  a new  place ; in  other  words  we  had  wan- 
dered afield  and  had  struck  a new  restaurant  for 
dinner,  near  the  Boulevard  St  Michel,  which  was 
a bit  away  from  our  usual  quarter. 

I was  feeding  there  one  evening  when  a very 
good-looking  girl  came  in  by  herself.  This  in 
itself  had  rien  d’extraordinaire ; but  she  appealed 

73 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

to  me  at  once,  for  she  seemed  quite  a cut  above 
the  usual  run  of  girls  who  came  to  cafes  and 
restaurants  unaccompanied,  and  I remember  the 
thought  struck  me  what  a pity  it  was  that  she 
should  have  to  go  to  a restaurant  like  this  alone. 
But  she  seemed  perfectly  self-possessed,  and  evi- 
dently was  an  old  habituee  of  the  place,  as  the 
patron  and  waiters  knew  her.  She  took  the  only 
seat  vacant,  which,  fortunately  for  me,  was  at  the 
table  adjoining  mine. 

In  the  crowded  restaurants  of  the  Quartier,  where 
everyone  at  meal  times  was  seated  in  such  close 
proximity  that  one  could  scarcely  move,  there 
was  no  difficulty  in  getting  on  speaking  terms 
with  your  neighbours ; so  a lady  coming  in  alone 
could  not  object  to  being  spoken  to  casually — cela 
n’engageait  a rien.  An  opportunity  soon  presented 
itself  for  me  to  make  a few  remarks,  and  before 
she  had  got  on  far  with  her  dinner  we  were  chat- 
ting away  as  though  we  had  known  each  other 
some  time.  I was  not  long  in  discovering  that 
she  really  was  very  different  to  what  one  would 
have  expected  to  meet  in  so  simple  a place,  as  she 
was  a premiere  in  a magasin  de  modes  in  the  Rue 
des  Ecoles,  which  accounted  for  her  chic  appear- 
ance ; and  then  as  we  got  more  and  more  friendly 
in  the  free-and-easy  manner  of  the  Quartier,  she 
confided  to  me  that  the  reason  she  came  there  by 
herself  to  dine  was  because  she  felt  very  lonely 
and  unhappy,  as  a great  friend  of  hers  had  gone 

74 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

to  South  America  and  wasn’t  coming  back  again. 
Then,  of  course,  I told  her  that  I also  felt  very 
lonely,  and  that  I only  wished  I could  be  lucky 
enough  to  have  an  amie  as  pretty  and  nice  as  she 
was,  and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  leave  her  to 
go  to  South  America. 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  we  were  getting  on 
rapidly — and  the  amusing  part  of  it  was  that  it  all 
developed  in  the  most  matter-of-fact,  casual  sort 
of  way;  but  in  these  adventures  the  unexpected 
is  indeed  always  the  most  delightful.  When  she 
left  we  had  arranged  to  meet  again  the  following 
evening,  and  this  chance  meeting  gradually  led  to 
our  seeing  each  other  frequently — then  from  fre- 
quently to  every  evening,  and — till  at  last,  as  may 
have  been  expected,  the  inevitable  happened,  and 
one  day  Rose  and  I were  more  than  ordinary 
amis. 

The  weather  was  particularly  delightful  in  the 
May  of  that  year,  and  I felt  sorely  tempted  to 
leave  the  studio  and  take  my  paint-box  and  get 
away  from  the  stuffy  Quartier  to  the  sylvan 
retreats  of  Meudon  or  Robinson.  Amongst  the 
many  fascinations  of  student  life  in  Paris  these 
impromptu  excursions  are  the  most  delightful; 
they  have  been  described  by  poets  and  novelists 
from  time  immemorial — but  you’ve  got  to  be  young 
and  have  a pretty  girl  hanging  on  your  arm,  as 
well  as  a keen  sense  of  the  romantic,  to  thoroughly 
enjoy  them.  Then  you  don’t  notice  the  toughness 

75 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

of  the  bifteck,  the  sourness  of  the  vin  ordinaire, 
or  the  coarseness  of  the  tablecloth — all  is  Elysium 
when  she  says  it  is  the  loveliest  time  she  has  ever 
spent  in  her  life,  and  you  are  the  only  boy  she  has 
ever  really  loved  (and  one  believes  it) ; then  the 
food  is  excellent,  and  the  wine  nectar,  and  the 
linen  is  the  finest  damask,  and,  well,  it’s  the  old, 
old  story  over  and  over  again.  So  Rose  got  a 
day  off  and  we  went  one  lovely  hot  morning  to 
Robinson,  and  spent  the  happiest  day  imaginable, 
and  I made  a sketch  of  her  in  the  woods,  and  we 
rode  on  donkeys  and  dejeuned  and  dined  and 
spooned  in  the  quaint  little  arbours  built  up  in  the 
trees ; and  we  got  back  to  Paris  late  in  the  even- 
ing, tired  out  but  feeling,  so  we  told  each  other, 
that  we  had  had  the  time  of  our  lives — and  I was 
more  in  love  with  her  than  ever.  Those  were 
indeed  days  to  be  remembered. 

On  other  occasions  we  explored  Fontenay  aux 
Roses,  or  Meudon — sometimes  also  Suresnes, 
where  we  knew  a place  where  we  could  get  a good 
friture  avec  un  excellent  petit  piccolo.  Then 
sometimes  on  Sunday,  when  I could  find  an  excuse 
to  get  out  of  spending  the  day  en  famille,  we  would 
go  to  Bougival,  where  there  was  mixed  bathing 
in  a place  called  La  Grenouillere,  and  screaming 
fun  to  watch.  It  was  all  very  delightful. 

Many  of  these  little  country  “ restaurants  ” were 
of  a very  primitive  character — which  added  not  a 
little  to  their  charm  in  our  eyes.  I remember  one 

76 


AND  I WAS  MORR  IN  LOVE  WITH  III'R  I'lIAN  RVRR. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

in  particular  which  we  had  taken  quite  a liking  to, 
as  the  patron  and  his  wife  always  went  out  of  their 
way  to  give  us  a hearty  welcome,  and  what  was 
more  to  the  point,  generally  something  extra 
special  for  lunch  or  dinner,  as  the  case  might  be. 
This  led  to  a somewhat  amusing  little  incident 
on  one  occasion.  We  were  lunching  there  and 
as  a hors-d’oeuvre  there  was  a dish  of  fine  shrimps 
of  the  variety  known  as  crevettes  roses  de  Dieppe. 
We  were  busily  engaged  peeling  and  eating  them 
when  the  patronne  came  along  and  was  chatting 
with  us,  as  was  her  wont,  when  she  made  the 
remark  in  her  motherly  way  that  we  didn’t  under- 
stand taking  the  shells  off  the  shrimps.  “ I will 
show  you  how  we  do  it  where  I come  from,”  she 
added,  and  suiting  the  action  to  her  words,  she 
picked  up  one  and  deftly  removed  the  shell  by 
some  peculiar  twist  of  her  finger-nails.  It  was 
certainly  very  smartly  done  and  seemed  very 
simple,  but  try  as  we  would  we  couldn’t  accomplish 
it  ourselves ; so  she  good-naturedly  offered  to  do 
the  rest  for  us.  In  vain  we  protested,  for  her  hands 
and  nails  were  begrimed  with  housework.  Of 
course  she  didn’t  understand  the  reason  for  our 
scruples.  I still  remember  the  look  on  Rose’s 
face,  but  not  liking  to  offend  her,  as  she  was  doing 
it  out  of  pure  kindness,  we  had  to  accept  her 
proffered  assistance,  and  we  ate  the  lot.  I never 
see  shrimps  even  now  without  thinking  of  the 
incident. 


77 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

During  the  whole  time  Rose  and  I were  cama- 
rades  I don’t  think  we  had  a wry  word — of  course 
the  fact  of  her  being  employed  during  the  day  was 
a great  factor,  as  I had  noticed  that  nearly  all  the 
tiffs  between  the  etudiants  and  their  amies  arose 
from  their  seeing  too  much  of  each  other.  Rose 
was  always  known  amongst  my  student  friends  as 
I’amie  de  Price,  and  wherever  I went  she  of  course 
accompanied  me ; and  this  reminds  me  of  a funny 
joke  we  once  had  at  her  expense,  and  into  the 
spirit  of  which  she  entered  as  heartily  as  all  of  us. 
We  were  invited  to  lunch  one  Sunday  at  a friend’s 
studio — for  his  fete  or  something.  There  were 
six  of  us,  three  men  and  three  demoiselles.  It 
was,  of  course,  very  Bohemian,  and  we  all  helped 
to  get  in  and  to  prepare  the  lunch.  Rose  was  as 
busy  as  any  of  them,  as  she  was  a real  little  house- 
wife and  loved  it.  When  all  was  ready  and  we 
were  about  to  sit  down  to  table  I went  into  the 
cabinet  de  toilette  to  wash  my  hands,  when  I 
noticed  she  had  left  her  rings  on  the  washstand. 
An  idea  immediately  struck  me,  and  calling  for 
my  friend,  our  host,  I asked  him  to  make  some 
excuse  to  get  Rose  to  leave  the  table  for  a moment 
and  go  into  the  kitchen;  then  I quickly  went  to 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  taking  out  some 
of  the  crumbs  of  the  piece  of  bread  by  her  plate 
I put  the  rings  inside  and  replaced  the  crumbs, 
so  that  the  bread  did  not  look  as  if  it  had  been 
touched.  Well,  we  were  all  seated  and  about  to 

78 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

commence  when  suddenly  she  jumped  up,  looking 
as  white  as  a ghost,  exclaiming,  Mon  Dieu,  Tve 
lost  my  rings.” 

We  all  asked  where  she  could  have  left  them ; 
it  couldn’t  be  in  the  studio.  However,  we  all  pre- 
tended to  look  for  them — in  the  kitchen,  the  bed- 
room, everywhere.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  we 
said,  but  to  go  on  with  lunch  and  trust  to  her 
having  left  them  at  home ; but  she  was  not  to  be 
reassured  so  easily,  and  for  some  minutes  I thought 
she  would  burst  out  crying,  in  which  case  I should 
have  had  to  tell  her  of  the  trick.  However,  she 
gradually  calmed  down  and  we  proceeded  with 
the  hors-d’oeuvre — while  we  all  waited  to  see  what 
would  happen.  At  last  she  took  up  the  piece  of 
bread  and  broke  it  in  halves.  The  cry  of  astonish- 
ment and  the  look  of  childish  amazement  on  her 
face  when  she  saw  her  rings  buried  in  the  crumbs 
was  the  funniest  thing  I think  I’ve  ever  seen.  I 
don’t  remember  a more  successful  practical  joke, 
nor  one  more  appreciated.  The  studio  fairly 
echoed  with  the  shrieks  of  laughter  that  followed, 
whilst  she  came  round  to  me  and  put  her  arm 
round  my  neck  and  kissed  me,  whilst  she  whis- 
pered “ Mechant  blagueur  vas.” 

And  so  that  summer  gradually  passed  by,  and 
in  the  atelier  they  began  to  talk  about  leaving 
Paris  for  the  vacances,  and  of  la  peinture  en  plein 
air,  and  there  was  a restless  roving  spirit  over  us 
all,  for  the  weather  was  perfect,  and  it  almost 

79 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

seemed  a sin  to  coop  oneself  up  in  the  atelier  when 
one  might  be  out  in  the  open,  painting  from  nature. 
Stott  and  I had  sketched  all  there  was  to  sketch 
round  Bas  Meudon  and  the  neighbourhood,  and 
began  to  talk  about  Brittany  and  the  sea,  when 
I received  a letter  from  my  guardian  which  necessi- 
tated my  going  over  to  London  at  once.  There 
was  no  help  for  it;  someone  had  forged  a cheque 
on  our  little  estate.  The  thief  had  been  caught 
and  I must  go  over  and  give  evidence.  It  would 
mean  being  away  some  little  time.  Rose  was  very 
upset  at  the  idea  of  my  leaving,  as  we  had  never 
been  apart  for  six  months  now,  and  had  looked 
forward  to  our  spending  part  of  the  vacances 
together — but  she  was  too  intelligent  to  show  any 
annoyance. 

“ Puis  qu’il  faut  que  tu  y ailles  il  n’y  a rien  a 
dire,”  she  said  in  a broken  voice. 

The  night  before  I left  we  had  a little  farewell 
dinner  all  alone,  with  a bottle  of  vin  superieur, 
and  I felt  a lump  in  my  throat  the  whole  time,  I 
remember;  perhaps  it  was  an  intuitive  feeling 
that  this  was  to  be  our  last  meal  together.  But 
I did  my  best  to  be  cheerful,  and  talked  about 
all  we  would  do  when  I came  back;  and  the 
tears  ran  ‘down  her  cheeks,  and  then  I broke 
down  also — so  it  was  not  a very  lively 
repast. 

I went  away  early  next  morning,  and  Rose  came 
to  the  station  to  see  me  off.  I was  away  longer 

8o 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

than  I expected  to  be.  We  corresponded  regu- 
larly for  some  time,  and  she  told  me  all  she  was 
doing  and  how  much  she  missed  me ; and  then 
there  was  a stop.  No  letter  for  more  than  a week. 
I did  not  know  what  to  think — so  at  last  I sent  a 
telegram — “ Why  no  letter,  very  anxious.”  Then 
at  last  came  news — “ Ecrivant  aujourd’hui,”  so  I 
had  to  bear  my  soul  in  patience  till  her  letter 
arrived.  I rushed  to  my  room  to  read  it  quietly. 
To  my  astonishment  it  informed  me  that  some- 
thing tres  imprevue  had  happened:  her  old  friend 
who  had  left  her  to  go  to  South  America  had 
written  from  the  Argentine  to  ask  her  to  come  out 
and  marry  him — that  he  had  a lovely  home  to  offer 
her,  and  had  enclosed  a banker’s  draft  to  pay  her 
trousseau  and  expenses  out,  and  that  he  expected 
a cable  from  her  to  say  when  she  would  start. 
“ What  could  she  do  but  accept?  ” she  asked  me. 
She  had  been  thinking  it  over  and  had  come  to 
the  conclusion,  and  her  mother  agreed  with  her, 
that  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  her, 
since  she  knew  I did  not  want  to  get  married ; so 
she  was  leaving  that  day  by  the  paquebot  from 
Bordeaux  for  Buenos  Ayres.  “Tu  reviendras  a 
Paris,”  she  ended  her  letter,  “ et  tu  te  remettras  a 
travailler  ferme  et  tu  penseras  peut-etre  quelque- 
fois  a ta  petite  amie  Rose  qui  t’a  bien  aime. 
Adieu.” 

She  gave  no  address  to  which  I could 
write. 


8i 


F 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

So  that  was  the  end  of  my  first  love  story,  and 
curiously  enough  also  of  the  only  liaison  I had  the 
whole  time  I lived  in  Paris.  I had  many  petites 
amours  after  that,  but  I never  came  across  another 
girl  like  Rose. 


82 


CHAPTER  yill 


I return  to  Paris— Looking  for  new  quarters — The  Rue 
de  la  Rochefoucauld— Buying  furniture— The  Baronne 
d’Ange — First  night  in  my  new  room — Curious  incident — 
The  restaurant  in  the  Rue  Vivienne — Eugdnie — A ren- 
dezvous— A disappointment — My  first  sale  of  a picture — 
The  petit  rentier — I am  commissioned  to  paint  a portrait 
— A worrying  sitter. 

Paris  seemed  very  cheerless  and  I felt  very  lonely 
on  my  return.  I had  decided  to  give  up  my  room 
in  the  Rue  de  Seine ; so  put  up  for  a day  or  two 
at  the  Hotel  d’Isly  in  the  Rue  Jacob.  But  the 
Quartier  had  no  longer  an  attraction  for  me,  for 
do  what  I would  the  recollection  of  Rose  and  the 
delightful  times  we  had  spent  there  kept  haunting 
me ; so  I decided  to  find  a room  up  Montmartre 
way,  where  several  friends  had  studios. 

After  the  usual  worrying  search,  this  time 
without  the  assistance  of  my  friend.  Monsieur 
Thomas,  I settled  on  a small,  unfurnished  chambre 
de  gargon  and  cabinet  de  toilette  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Rochefoucauld.  It  was  a bit  far  from  the  Ecole, 
but  the  walk  of  a morning  would  do  me  no  harm, 
and  it  was  not  far  from  Julians  when  I left  off  of 
an  afternoon,  as  I had  decided  not  to  continue  the 

83 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Cours  Yvon.  The  rent  was  only  three  hundred 
francs  a year,  and  five  francs  a month  for  the 
concierge  to  do  my  menage,  so  it  could  not  be 
considered  excessive ; but  I had  to  buy  furniture, 
and  that  was  a bit  of  a drawback.  Still,  I felt  that 
sooner  or  later  I should  have  to  do  this,  as  it  was 
too  extravagant  living  in  a maison  meublee,  so  I 
started  buying  the  bare  necessaries  of  a bachelor’s 
room — a bed,  table,  two  chairs,  une  armoire  a 
glace,  and  a washstand.  I could  not  well  do  with 
less.  Then  there  were  the  unavoidable  little 
extras — a bit  of  carpet,  la  vaisselle,  curtains, 
sheets,  towels,  and  an  ornament  or  two ; so  by  the 
time  I had  bought  all  these  I had  expended 
the  modest  sum  my  guardian  had  advanced  me 
towards  my  putting  myself  dans  mes  meubles,  and 
I recollect  that  it  was  with  a certain  amount  of 
excusable  pride  that  I arranged  my  little  home, 
for  it  was  the  first  time  I had  had  anything  in  the 
shape  of  furniture  of  my  own — so  me  voila  etabli. 

My  humble  apartment  was  on  the  third  floor  of 
an  old  house  at  the  angle  of  the  Rue  de  la  Roche- 
foucauld and  the  Rue  Pigalle,  which  I believe  had 
formerly  been  the  residence  of  Victor  Hugo ; when 
I went  to  live  there  it  was  chiefly  famous  as  the 
residence  of  the  Baronne  d’Ange,  a well-known 
cocotte  of  that  time,  who  kept  an  establishment 
in  the  Rue  St  Georges.  She  occupied  a spacious 
pavilion  at  the  back  of  my  house,  and  it  was  from 
here  she  used  to  drive  to  the  Bois  during  the 

84 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

season  in  a showy  caleche,  with  a pair  of  horses 
respendent  with  silver  trappings — and  with  a 
black  groom  seated  alongside  her.  This  gave 
No.  66  a certain  cachet  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  house  was  particularly  well  kept,  and,  being 
an  old  mansion,  was  quite  out  of  the  common — 
so  it  was  rather  fortunate  to  get  a room  there. 

I remember,  though,  I had  rather  a shock  the 
first  night  I slept  there.  It  came  about  like  this. 
My  room  with  three  others  was  on  the  landing  at 
the  top  of  the  house.  There  was  nothing  what- 
ever to  indicate  any  communication  between  the 
rooms — otherwise  I should  not  have  taken  it,  as 
I have  a horror  of  communicating  doors  such  as 
one  finds  in  all  hotels  on  the  Continent.  To  me 
there  is  nothing  more  unpleasant  than  the  absence 
of  privacy  such  doors  convey,  however  much  they 
may  be  hidden  by  furniture  or  curtains.  My  room 
appeared  to  have  just  ordinary  walls,  so  I was 
satisfied.  I went  to  bed  with  a feeling  of  satisfac- 
tion of  being  in  my  own  sheets,  and  had  fallen 
asleep  when  I was  awakened  by  the  curious  feeling 
of  someone  being  in  my  room.  I sat  up  in  bed 
and  listened,  when,  to  my  intense  annoyance  and 
disgust,  I discovered  that  the  wall  alongside  my 
bed  was  not  solid,  although  it  had  every  appear- 
ance of  being  so,  but  was  a door  covered  skilfully 
with  canvas  and  paper.  My  neighbour’s  bed  was 
only  separated  from  mine  by  the  very  thinnest  of 
partitions. 


85 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

The  voices  which  had  woke  me  up  proceeded 
from  his  room,  and  he  was  not  alone — a female 
voice  betrayed  the  fact;  that  they  were  not  a 
married  couple  was  also  evident  from  their  con- 
versation. At  first  it  was  somewhat  interesting 
and  amusing  to  listen  to  the  exchange  of  confi- 
dences which  followed  on  what  had  evidently  been 
but  a rencontre  du  hasard,  and  the  subsequent 
ebats  d’amour,  but  when  this  continued  till  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning,  to  the  detriment  of 
my  night’s  rest,  I began  to  feel  seriously  upset — 
not  merely  because  I had  to  get  up  early,  but  by 
reason  of  knowing  that  unless  I could  contrive 
something  to  stop  it  there  would  be  no  privacy 
for  me  either  at  any  time. 

The  question  was,  what  to  do  for  the  moment. 
To  knock  at  the  wall  and  call  out  “ Assez  ” would 
never  do.  I should  have  only  been  inviting  un- 
pleasantness— as  he  was  chez  lui,  and  therefore  at 
liberty  to  do  as  he  pleased;  so  I decided  to  grin 
and  bear  it,  and  think  out  a solution  the  follow- 
ing day. 

“ C’est  un  peu  desagreable  j’en  conviens  mais 
Ton  finit  par  s y habituer,”  said  the  concierge  with 
a grin  when  I complained  about  it  next  day ; how- 
ever, she  sent  her  husband  up  to  see  what  could 
be  done,  and  we  found  that  by  shifting  my  bed 
and  putting  the  wardrobe  in  its  place  the  sound 
was  deadened  to  a certain  extent,  but  all  the  time 
I lived  there  I had  an  unpleasant  feeling  that  my 

86 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

neighbour  knew  as  much  of  my  petites  fredaines 
as  I did  of  his. 

My  visit  to  England  had  but  increased  my 
enthusiasm  for  my  work  and  my  life  in  Paris.  The 
very  air  of  France  seemed  to  have  an  effect  akin 
to  champagne  on  my  temperament — an  impression 
the  years  have  never  effaced.  I returned,  there- 
fore, to  my  studies  with  a renewed  energy,  and 
every  morning  saw  me  marching  down  the  Rue 
Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  at  half-past  seven,  for  it 
now  being  in  the  autumn,  the  atelier  started  an 
hour  later  than  in  the  summer;  and  after  dejeuner 
I would  go  on  to  Julians  and  paint  there  all  the 
afternoon.  And  mentioning  dejeuner  recalls  to 
mind  a little  incident  that  was  rather  amusing  in 
its  way. 

There  was  a little  restaurant  close  to  the  Palais 
Royal  in  the  Rue  Vivienne  on  the  way  to  Julians 
— which  someone  had  discovered,  and  where 
several  of  us  used  to  go  to  lunch  of  a day.  It  was 
of  course  an  inexpensive  place,  otherwise  we 
shouldn’t  have  gone  there,  cela  va  sans  dire ; still 
it  had  some  sort  of  outward  pretension.  I remem- 
ber they  used  to  have  all  sorts  of  quaint  things 
hanging  at  the  door  occasionally,  such  as  a 
chamois,  a deer,  or  mayhap  a wild  boar,  such 
delicacies  as  one  would  expect  to  find  in  a first- 
class  restaurant.  This  outside  sort  of  larder  gave 
a certain  cachet  to  the  place  which  had  attracted 
us,  although  one  soon  found  out  that  these 

87 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

delicacies  were  never  on  the  menu;  they  were 
probably  only  hired,  and  placed  outside  to  attract 
customers. 

Another  attraction,  however,  that  really  existed, 
as  we  were  not  long  in  discovering,  was  an 
extremely  pretty  waitress.  I can  still  picture  her 
in  my  mind.  She  was  dressed  in  a dainty  sort 
of  costume,  with  cap  not  unlike  that  of  a London 
waitress,  but  worn  with  that  chic  which  is  the 
attribute  of  the  Parisienne.  She  had  light-coloured 
wavy  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  lovely  teeth,  which 
she  never  missed  an  opportunity  of  showing; 
altogether,  in  the  opinion  of  our  crowd,  she  was 
“ simply  stunning,”  and  her  name  was  Eugenie. 
That  we  annexed  her  table  permanently  for  lunch 
soon  followed,  as  was  only  to  be  expected. 

We  were  always  a very  merry  party,  all  young 
artists,  and  probably  a contrast  in  her  mind 
to  the  usual  of  the  restaurant — which  mainly 
consisted  of  shop  assistants  from  the  neighbour- 
hood. Well,  it  was  not  long  before  a sort  of  tacit 
and  friendly  rivalry  sprung  up  between  us.  Each 
of  us  laid  himself  out,  as  it  were,  to  outshine  the 
other — the  result  being  that  the  lunches  developed 
into  a constant  interchange  of  wit  and  repartee, 
and  all  for  the  benefit  of  Eugenie  (Nini,  for  short), 
who  was  evidently  much  amused  thereat.  Of 
course  it  goes  without  saying  that  there  was  but 
one  idea  underlying  all  this  competition,  and 
that  was  to  get  Nini  as  one’s  chere  amie. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

For  some  little  while  the  honours  were  equally 
divided,  and  not  one  of  us  had  succeeded  in  making 
a rendezvous  with  her  outside.  Well,  one  day  I 
turned  up  for  lunch  very  much  later  than  usual, 
and  the  restaurant  was  almost  empty — all  my 
friends  had  been  and  gone.  I had  Nini  all  to 
myself,  and  you  may  be  sure  I did  not  lose  my 
chance,  and  by  the  time  I had  finished  she  had 
promised  to  meet  me  that  evening  after  her  work 
was  over.  I remember  how  elated  I felt  all  that 
afternoon,  though  I took  care  not  to  let  any  of 
the  fellows  know  of  my  good-fortune.  I intended 
to  let  them  see  me  walk  in  with  her  in  nonchalant 
manner  to  the  cafe  where  we  usually  met  of  an 
evening,  and  to  nod  to  them  en  passant,  as  though 
it  was  quite  a usual  occurrence  our  being  out 
together. 

I was  at  the  rendezvous  punctually,  as  may  be 
imagined.  It  was  at  a corner  of  the  Place  de  la 
Bourse,  a very  quiet  neighbourhood  at  night. 
There  was  only  one  person  in  sight  when  I arrived, 
a very  ordinary-looking  female  dressed  in  the 
nondescript  garb  of  the  French  ouvriere — neither 
smart  nor  shabby,  but  just  one  of  hundreds  one 
passes  in  the  street  without  noticing,  though  her 
hat  might  have  attracted  attention,  for  it  was 
simply  ludicrous.  On  seeing  me,  she  gave  a little 
run  in  my  direction,  exclaiming  joyfully,  “ Oh  que 
je  suis  contente  de  vous  voir  arriver — je  pensais 
etre  en  retard.” 


89 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

I was  dumbfounded.  This  could  not  be  our 
Eugenie — the  delightful  little  person  we  had  all 
been  raving  about  for  days  past — this  graceless, 
ill-dressed  wench.  I could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes;  and  she  evidently  noticed  my  surprise,  for 
she  remarked  with  a giggle  which  still  further 
jarred  on  my  nerves,  “ Vous  ne  me  reconnaissez 
plus  dans  mon  costume  de  travail.” 

I made  some  sort  of  lame  protest,  whilst  rapidly 
cogitating  as  to  the  best  way  to  get  away  from  her, 
as  I felt  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  being  seen 
with  such  a scarecrow.  I would  not  dare  to  take 
her  to  even  the  smallest  cafe  in  case  I met  someone 
I knew — I should  be  chaffed  out  of  my  life  if  I did. 
Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention. 

An  idea  occurred  to  me,  and  without  a moment’s 
hesitation  I said,  “ Something  imprevue  has 
occurred  since  I saw  you  at  dejeuner;  one  of 
our  friends,  suddenly  taken  ill,  wants  to  see  me 
urgently,  so  I must  go  off  at  once.  I should  have 
let  you  know  by  telegram,  but  thought  it  better 
to  wait  and  see  you  and  explain  personally.  You 
really  must  forgive  me  if  I run  off  immediately, 
as  Fm  already  late.  We  must  arrange  for  another 
evening,  if  you  will,  Nini,”  I added  with  hypo- 
critical earnestness. 

She  was  naturally  disappointed,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  said  under  the  circumstance. 

“ C’est  tres  malheureux,”  was  her  remark, 

“ mais  ce  sera  pour  un  autre  soir.” 

90 


“ms  API’KAKAXCK  OF  INTKNSF  KKSPECTABII.ITY. ’’ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

I was  so  delighted  at  the  success  of  my  ruse 
that  I actually  snatched  a kiss  before  hurrying  off. 
I never  went  to  lunch  in  the  Rue  Vivienne  again ; 
as  I explained  to  my  friends,  it  doesn’t  do  to  stick 
to  the  same  place  too  long — one  wants  to  vary 
one’s  cuisine.  They  may  have  thought  a lot,  but 
they  said  nothing. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I first  sold  a picture 
— not  for  a very  big  sum,  but  still  it  was  a sale — 
and  it  came  about  in  a very  curious  and  unexpected 
fashion.  There  was  a middle-aged,  prosperous- 
looking  man  who  used  to  come  and  work  occa- 
sionally at  Julians  as  a sort  of  amateur  student; 
we  nicknamed  him  the  “ petit  rentier  ” — as  in  fact 
he  was.  He  and  I somehow,  in  spite  of  the 
difference  of  our  ages,  became  very  pally,  and  he 
eventually  joined  our  little  group.  He  was  not 
an  excessively  amusing  chap,  but  his  appearance 
of  intense  respectability  gave  tone  henceforth  to 
our  table  at  the  cafe.  One  day  he  turned  up  at 
my  room  to  look  at  an  ambitious  little  painting  I 
was  just  completing.  I forget  the  subject  now, 
but  I remember  that  to  my  surprise  he  said,  ‘‘  I 
like  it  very  much,  and  if  you  will  paint  me  in  it  I 
will  give  you  two  hundred  francs  for  it  when  it’s 
finished.” 

I didn’t  require  much  persuasion  to  accept  his 
magnificent  offer — so  he  came  and  sat  for  me  and 
the  work  was  completed,  and  to  my  great  satis- 
faction I pocketed  two  crisp  hundred-franc  notes, 

91 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

and  he  took  away  the  canvas  under  his  arm, 
genuinely  pleased  with  the  bargain,  I believe. 
Well,  he  turned  out  quite  an  Art  patron  for  me 
after  this  deal  with  him — for  one  day  shortly  after 
he  came  to  me  with  an  offer  from  a friend  of  his, 
a business  man,  who  wanted  his  wife’s  portrait 
painted,  and  would  give  me  five  hundred  francs 
for  it  if  I cared  to  undertake  it.  Again  no  hesi- 
tation on  my  part ; so  it  was  arranged  that  I should 
do  the  painting  at  their  appartement  in  the  Rue 
Bergere.  I well  remember  this,  my  first  serious 
attempt  at  portraiture.  The  lady  was  a stout 
Jewess — of  not  unprepossessing  appearance,  but 
extremely  vain — and  it  was  only  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  I dissuaded  her  from  wearing  all  her 
lace  and  family  jewels ; not  that  I thought  they 
were  unbecoming,  but  because  I felt  that  I had 
bargained  to  paint  her  portrait  only,  not  her 
domestic  wealth  as  well.  So  she  eventually  fell 
in  with  my  suggestion,  and  consented  to  being 
depicted  as  I wished. 

Oh!  the  bother  and  annoyance  before  I com- 
pleted that  portrait.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I 
was  only  a youngster  that  she  thought  my  time 
was  of  no  account,  for  she  would  make  appoint- 
ments and  put  them  off  at  a moment’s  notice,  or 
not  feel  equal  to  sitting  when  I got  to  the  house, 
and  all  manner  of  excuses ; till  at  last  I felt  that 
if  ever  I finished  the  portrait  I should  have  really 
well  earned  the  five  hundred  francs.  However, 

92 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

it  was  at  length  finished  and  her  husband  and  the 
family  seemed  to  like  it — at  any  rate,  I was  paid ; 
that  was  all  that  concerned  me.  I did  not  want 
any  more  commissions  for  portraits  for  a time  after 
that  first  experience ; it  was  a positive  relief  to  feel 
myself  free  once  more — as  I had  been  at  her  beck 
and  call  for  weeks. 


93 


CHAPTER  IX 


I am  introduced  at  the  Cafd  de  la  Rochefoucauld — The 
habitues  of  the  caf4 — Disting-uished  men  one  met  there — 
A Whistler  anecdote — Petites  dames — Models — La  Sagatore 
— La  Belle  Laure  and  her  tragic  ending — English  girls  at 
the  caf6,  and  a joke  on  one  of  them — A favourite  with 
the  ladies — A witty  remark — Stray  clients  at  the  caf4 — 
The  end  of  the  Caf6  de  la  Rochefoucauld — Bohemianism 
and  some  curious  predicaments — Humorous  situation. 

Living  in  Montmartre  meant,  as  I soon  realised, 
an  almost  complete  changement  d’habitudes — 
especially  after  returning  from  work.  Most  of 
my  friends  lived  some  distance  off,  so  it  was  a 
trifle  lonely  at  first  at  the  Rue  de  la  Rochefoucauld, 
as  may  be  imagined. 

Stott  had  decided  to  remain  in  his  beloved 
Quartier  when  in  Paris,  as  he  was  away  a good  deal 
painting  in  Brittany  and  elsewhere,  the  open  air 
having  more  charm  for  him  than  the  atelier.  I 
was  sorry  to  see  less  of  him,  for  from  the  very  first 
day  we  met  we  had  been  very  much  en  sympathie, 
and  had  become  the  greatest  of  chums.  Moreover, 
I was  a great  admirer  of  his  work.  Still  there  was 
no  help  for  it,  as  I could  not  persuade  him  to 
migrate  with  me. 


94 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

The  evenings  especially  were  very  dull,  for  the 
first  week  or  so  after  I had  moved  in — as  I knew 
nothing  whatever  of  my  new  quarter. 

One  day,  however,  I walked  back  with  an  Eng- 
lish chap  who  was  also  painting  at  Julians,  and 
he  asked  me  what  became  of  me  after  leaving  the 
atelier,  that  he  never  saw  me.  I told  him  how 
slow  I found  it,  as  I had  not  yet  discovered  the 
artists’  haunts  of  the  neighbourhood. 

“ You  don’t  mean  to  say  you  don’t  know  the 
Cafe  de  la  Rochefoucauld  ? ” he  asked. 

I had  to  admit  I didn’t,  so  he  took  me  there  to 
dinner  that  evening,  and  I found  myself  at  once 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  interesting  coterie  of  Mont- 
martre. Although  quite  a cheap  place,  dejeuner 
two  francs,  diner  2.50  vin  compris,  the  Cafe  de  la 
Rochefoucauld  was  quite  unique  of  its  kind.  It 
was  a tiny  little  place  where  one  would  not  have 
thought  of  going  to  au  hasard — one  might  have 
passed  it  every  day  without  noticing  it ; neither  out- 
wardly nor  inwardly  was  it  of  any  pretension.  Its 
habitues  made  of  it  what  it  was,  the  cheeriest  and 
most  interesting  rendezvous  of  the  neighbourhood. 

But  the  Rochefoucauld  was  not  a cafe  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  as  there  were  hundreds 
in  Montmartre.  It  was  an  exclusive  little  artistic 
rendezvous  frequented  by  some  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished and  talented  men  in  Paris  at  that  time, 
and  where  one  had  to  be  introduced  before  one 
could  become  an  habitue.  One  constantly  met 

95 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

men  there  whose  names  are  still  famous,  as  for 
instance — Albert  Wolff  the  brilliant  and  witty  Art 
critic,  Gerome,  in  whose  atelier  I was,  Gervex, 
Chartran,  Carrier-Belleuse,  Humbert,  Cormon, 
Dupray,  Degas,  and  last  but  not  least,  Whistler, 
whenever  he  was  in  Paris.  The  author  of  the 
“ Gentle  art  of  making  enemies  ” was  as  famous 
in  Paris  as  a bel  esprit  as  he  was  as  an  artist,  and 
I remember  a story  they  used  to  tell  which  struck 
me  as  a rare  specimen  of  his  humour.  One  even- 
ing he  was  dining  at  a friend’s  house  and  the  dinner 
was  a very  lively  affair.  During  the  evening  the 
artist  remembered  he  wanted  to  write  a telegram 
or  something — so  was  shown  into  a room  on  the 
floor  above.  Shortly  afterwards  a sound  as  of 
something  falling  down  the  stairs  was  heard ; 
everyone  rushed  out  to  see  what  it  was,  and  found 
the  little  man  just  picking  himself  up  and  looking 
very  perturbed. 

“ Are  you  hurt  ? ” they  all  exclaimed. 

“ Who  was  the  architect  of  this  house  ? ” was  the 
extraordinary  reply  they  got. 

Some  name  was  given — I forget  who. 

“ Damned  teetotaller,”  Whistler  ejaculated  with 
a hiccup. 

Old  Goupil,  the  big  picture-dealer  of  the  Rue 
Chaptal,  Gerome’s  father-in-law,  also  used  to  come 
there ; he  was  the  richest  man  of  the  crowd — yet 
was  so  mean  that  he  never  tipped  the  waiter  more 
than  a sou,  and  it  was  said  would  take  home  with 

96 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

him  the  sugar  of  his  coffee.  Then  I must  not 
forget  Richard  Tripp,  the  expert  on  the  Barbizon 
School — ‘‘Timide,’’  as  he  was  nicknamed — ^why 
I don’t  know,  except  perhaps  because  he  was  the 
very  reverse — one  of  the  most  popular  men  in 
Paris,  who  was  the  life  of  the  cafe  and  without 
whom  no  escapade  or  festivity  was  complete ; 
Walter  Dowdeswell,  who  would  drop  in  occasion- 
ally when  over  from  London ; and  a cousin  of  mine, 
Charlie  Jephson,  who  was  on  the  Bourse.  These 
are  only  a few  of  the  names  of  men  I can  recollect 
for  the  moment,  but  they  will  suffice  to  convey 
some  idea  of  the  varied  clientele  of  the  Cafe  de 
la  Rochefoucauld  in  those  days.  As  may  be 
imagined,  I found  it  a great  contrast  to  the 
students’  haunts  I had  become  accustomed  to  in 
the  Quartier. 

The  ebullition  of  youth  was  still  en  evidence, 
as  many  young  men  were  to  be  seen  there ; but  it 
was  somewhat  sobered  by  the  presence  of  those  of 
more  mature  years — still  there  was  a good  deal  of 
practical  joking,  but  it  was  of  a rather  wittier  de- 
cription  than  that  practised  by  the  youngsters  of 
the  Ecole.  Animated  and  amusing  discussions 
would  take  place  over  dinner  on  subjects  which 
were  unknown  in  the  Quartier.  Altogether  it  was 
an  indication  that  in  appreciating  this  entourage  one 
was  beginning  to  take  one’s  pleasures  less  boister- 
ously— that  the  etudiant  stage  was  passing. 

It  was  Bohemia  of  a different  type — as  was  also 
97  G 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

evidenced  by  the  class  of  petites  dames  who  were 
habituees  of  the  cafe ; for  amongst  them  were 
some  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  artists’  models 
in  Paris.  Sagatore,  “ La  Sagatore  ” as  she  was 
called,  a very  handsome  Italian  woman  who  sat 
for  Gerome  principally;  Gabrielle,  Ellen  Andre, 
La  Grande  Louise,  and  La  Belle  Laure  who  sat 
chiefly  for  Humbert  and  Cormon,  to  mention  only 
some  who  were  famous  for  beauty  of  face  and 
figure  in  those  days.  Most  of  the  best-known 
models  ended  by  “ retiring  ” and  going  on  the 
stage,  or  taking  up  business  or  getting  married ; 
or,  still  more  frequently,  finding  rich  amants. 

The  last  I heard  of  La  Sagatore,  she  was  run- 
ning a restaurant  of  her  own  and  giving  an  excellent 
Italian  cuisine,  which  she  personally  superintended. 
Ellen  Andre  became  quite  a well-known  actress. 
I believe  Gabrielle  married  a rich  champagne  mer- 
chant, and  La  Grande  Louise  made  a big  success 
as  a music-hall  singer. 

La  Belle  Laure’s  butterfly  career  ended  in  a 
tragedy  of  so  thrilling  and  extraordinary  a charac- 
ter that  even  now  I can  recall  every  detail  of  it. 
She  was,  as  I have  said,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  models  in  Paris,  and  used  to  sit  principally 
for  ‘‘  odalisques,”  which  will  convey  some  idea  how 
lovely  was  her  face  and  how  exquisite  her  figure. 
In  addition  to  these  physical  attractions,  she  was 
young,  dressed  with  wonderful  taste,  and  was  the 
most  amusing  chatterbox  imaginable.  She  had 

98 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

started  in  her  career  as  a model  with  everything 
in  her  favour,  and  was  not  long  before  she  capti- 
vated a rich  and  good-looking  young  fellow,  a 
promising  author,  and  became  his  mistress. 

All  went  well  for  some  months  and  we  saw  them 
continually  at  the  Rochefoucauld,  when  there 
appeared  on  the  scene  an  elderly  engineer,  a very 
distinguished  man,  but  a sort  of  sneering  Mephis- 
topheles,  with  no  respect  at  all  for  women.  He 
was  old  enough  to  be  her  father;  but  to  the 
astonishment  of  everyone  La  Belle  Laure  fell  in 
love  with  him.  What  she  saw  in  him  was  a 
mystery  to  us  all,  for  he  was,  from  a man’s  point 
of  view,  not  particularly  good-looking  nor  attrac- 
tive as  a personality ; but  the  fact  remained,  and 
from  this  moment  she  became  his  ame  damnee,  as 
it  were.  As  she  herself  expressed  it  plaintively  on 
one  occasion  to  a friend  of  hers,  “ I am  his  slave — 
body  and  soul — and  I cannot  explain  why  I care 
for  him  as  I do — for  he  has  no  regard  for  me,  and 
never  misses  an  opportunity  to  make  me  jealous 
and  unhappy.”  It  was  a totally  incomprehensible 
state  of  affairs,  for  she  was  still  the  mistress  of  the 
young  author  who  worshipped  the  ground  she  trod 
on,  although  he  must  have  known  what  was  going 
on — unless  he  was  exceptionally  dense  or  wilfully 
blind.  To  give  an  example.  On  one  occasion 
she  was  dining  with  him  at  the  cafe  when  the 
other  man  looked  in  at  the  door  and  made  a sign 
to  her.  She  turned  pale,  and  then  making  some 

99 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

excuse  went  out,  to  return  in  a few  minutes  in  such 
a perturbed  state  that  we  all  noticed  it — but  her 
amant  said  nothing. 

What  she  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  other  man 
we  could  only  guess  from  what  she  told  us  at 
times.  It  appeared  that  he  used  to  enjoy  making 
her  jealous — would  purposely  let  her  see  him  with 
other  women  when  he  had  asked  her  to  meet  him, 
and  so  forth.  This  continued  for  some  time  till 
at  last  it  got  on  her  mind  and  she  began  to  look 
ill;  then  one  day  she  did  not  turn  up  as  usual  at 
the  cafe.  We  then  learned,  to  our  horror,  that  she 
had  committed  suicide  by  taking  a poison  she  had 
obtained  by  soaking  phosphorous  matches  in  water. 
She  did  not  die,  however,  immediately,  but  lingered 
for  some  hours — during  which  time  everything 
that  was  possible  was  done  to  save  her,  but  without 
avail.  Then  came  the  pathos  of  it  all ; at  the  last 
moment  the  poor  girl  clung  desperately  to  life,  all 
her  old  coquetry  returned,  and  she  wanted  to  live 
— but  it  was  too  late.  Her  amant,  broken-hearted, 
nursed  her,  so  they  said,  as  tenderly  as  a sister 
of  mercy.  The  man  who  was  the  cause  of  her 
mad  deed  pleaded  hard  to  be  allowed  to  see  her, 
but  her  love  had  turned  to  implacable  hatred. 

“ Never,’’  she  cried,  “ will  I see  him  again — for 
he  it  is  who  caused  me  to  do  this.” 

The  sequel  to  her  death  was  equally  tragic  and 
extraordinary.  A fortnight  later  the  engineer 
committed  suicide  by  shooting  himself ; it  had  got 

100 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

on  his  brain  the  girl  having  refused  to  see  him 
before  she  died — and  a fortnight  after  that  the 
young  author  threw  himself  out  of  his  window  and 
killed  himself.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had 
communicated  to  the  two  men  the  suggestion  of 
suicide.  Thus  ended  the  most  poignant  romance 
of  Bohemian  life  in  Paris  I ever  heard  of. 

All  the  models  who  used  to  come  to  the  cafe  were 
girls  who  took  their  work  seriously — with  them  it 
was  strictly  business  all  the  time,  and  one  soon 
realised  that,  if  one  had  thought  otherwise  at  first. 
Of  course  it  must  not  be  inferred  from  all  this  that 
there  were  only  models  at  the  cafe,  for  many  men 
brought  their  petites  amies,  and  two  of  the  latter 
were  quite  amusing  characters  in  their  way.  They 
were  both  Londoners,  curiously  enough,  for  one 
would  scarcely  have  expected  English  girls  in  this 
out-of-the-way  place.  They  were  dancers  at  the 
Folies  Bergeres,  and  generally  turned  up  for  dinner 
before  going  to  their  work ; they  ended  by  becom- 
ing great  favourites,  which  was  somewhat  remark- 
able, as  neither  of  them  could  speak  a word  of 
French — indeed  it  was  a matter  of  wonder  how  they 
managed  to  get  about  as  they  did.  This  entire 
ignorance  of  the  language  led  to  a rather  funny 
joke  a man  at  the  cafe  got  up  expressly  for 
our  benefit. 

One  of  the  two  girls  was  very  pretty — fair  hair, 
nice  teeth,  good  figure,  blue  eyes — a credit,  in 
fact,  to  the  Old  Country,  and  a marked  contrast 

roi 


My  bohemian  days  in  Paris 

to  the  swarthy  type  of  French  woman.  To  look 
at  her  you  wouldn’t  have  believed  that  butter  would 
melt  in  her  little  mouth,  and  it  was  this  artless 
appearance  that  prompted  the  joke.  One  night 
at  dinner  when  she  was  trying  to  make  herself 
understood,  much  to  our  amusement,  someone  who 
spoke  English  offered  to  teach  her  to  speak  French. 
As  he  was  a good-looking  fellow  she  accepted  his 
offer.  We  thought  no  more  of  it,  till  to  our  amaze- 
ment some  few  days  later  she  came  out  with  some 
of  the  most  awful  words  in  French  it  is  possible 
to  conceive.  Her  preceptor  had  taught  her 
phrases,  to  express  the  simplest  thoughts,  that  I 
would  not  dare  to  repeat  here.  If  she  wanted  to 
say  the  most  ordinary  thing,  such  as,  for  instance, 
‘‘  Please  pass  me  the  mustard,”  or  anything  equally 
trivial,  she  used  language  that  would  have  made  a 
sailor’s  hair  curl — and  the  worst  of  it  was  she  had 
learned  all  this  in  utter  innocence,  believing  it  was 
a translation  of  what  she  would  say  in  English. 
It  may  be  imagined  the  expression  of  amazement 
on  strangers’  faces  when  they  heard  such  words 
issuing  from  the  pretty  lips  of  this  dainty  English 
miss.  It  took  a long  time  before  she  managed  to 
unlearn  all  she  had  learned,  and  she  was  very 
chary  of  French  words  for  a long  while  after  she 
found  out  how  she  had  been  hoaxed. 

Besides  these  two  girls  there  were  several  others 
who  use  to  come  to  lunch  and  dinner  nearly  every 
day.  One  often  wondered  what  their  lovers  saw 

102 


OX1-:  OF  Tin-;  C.IKLS  was  VKRV  I>RF/nY,  FAIR  HAIR,  NICK  TKKTII, 
ooon  FIGURE,  BLUE  EVES.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

in  them,  for  they  were  seldom  attractive  in 
appearance,  and  frequently  well  past  their  youth- 
ful days. 

I recollect  there  was  a musician  who  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a great  favourite  with  the 
ladies ; he  told  me  one  day  how  charming  his  girl 
was,  and  that  he  would  like  me  to  see  her — so  we 
arranged  to  dine  together,  when,  to  my  astonish- 
ment, after  his  glowing  description,  I saw  quite  a 
plain  and  homely  female,  of  uncertain  age,  of  the 
sort  that  one  would  pass  in  the  street  without  look- 
ing at  twice.  “ She  must  indeed  have  some  hidden 
attraction  for  my  friend  t rave  about  her  as  he 
does,”  thought  I. 

The  next  time  we  met  at  the  cafe  he  eagerly 
asked  what  I thought  of  her. 

I replied  evasively  that  she  was  very  sym- 
pathique,  but  not  quite  my  type. 

He  instinctively  gathered  my  meaning. 

“ She  may  not  perhaps  be  beautiful  in  the  face 
as  beauty  g^es,”  he  retorted,  “ but  you  should  see 
her  feet,  they  are  adorable.” 

This  reminds  me  of  a witty  way  I once  heard  of 
describing  in  a nice  manner  a plain-looking  girl. 
“ It  is  true  she  is  not  pretty,  but  she  has  a good 
heart  and  she  loves  her  mother.” 

There  were  very  seldom  fresh  faces  to  be  seen 
at  the  cafe — so  it  was  not  the  place  in  which  to 
seek  an  “ aventure  ” ; as  a matter  of  fact,  the  place 
had  become,  as  it  were,  so  exclusively  the  pro- 

103 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

perty  of  those  who  habitually  frequented  it,  that 
if  by  any  chance  a stray  client  or  a family  party 
happened  to  come  in  it  was  immediately  the  signal 
for  an  outburst  of  language  so  awful,  and  stories 
so  blue,  that  they  had  to  leave. 

The  Cafe  de  la  Rochefoucauld  has  long  ceased 
to  exist,  and  its  last  days  were  almost  dramatically 
pathetic.  For  some  time  previous  the  proprietors 
had  been  struggling  against  misfortune,  in  the 
shape  of  the  cafe  no  longer  paying — competition, 
increase  in  cost  of  food,  bad  debts. 

There  were  many  old  habitues  who  had  owed 
money  for  months — almost  years,  who  were  unable 
to  settle  up,  yet  could  not  be  turned  away  for  fear 
the  cafe  should  look  too  empty.  The  end  was 
bound  to  come,  and  come  it  did,  and  with  a crash 
one  evening.  The  gas  was  cut  off,  the  butcher  and 
baker  refused  to  deliver  any  more  meat  or  bread, 
and  the  patron  sadly  announced  that  there  was  no 
dinner  to  serve.  So  determined,  however,  were 
we  all  not  to  go  elsewhere  if  we  could  possibly  help 
it,  that  we  all  went  out  and  bought  charcuterie  and 
petits  pains  and  butter  and  cheese  and  candles 
which  we  stuck  in  bottles.  There  was  still  plenty 
of  wine  in  the  cellar,  so  we  managed  a dinner  of 
sorts,  though  it  was  a very  cheerless  one,  as  we  all 
realised  this  was  the  last  night  of  the  old  Cafe  de 
la  Rochefoucauld ; and  so  it  proved,  for  the  next 
day  the  place  was  bolted  and  barred,  and  shortly 
afterwards  sold  up. 


104 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

The  Rochefoucauld  was  a Bohemian  centre  in 
every  sense  of  the  word — Bohemianism  that  cannot 
exist  nowadays,  unhappily.  It  was  very  kindly 
and  genuine ; so  long  as  a man  was  a good  fellow 
and  was  introduced,  as  it  were,  into  it,  he  was  as 
welcome  as  any  of  the  most  distinguished  of  its 
habitues.  There  was  no  trace  of  snobbishness  in 
the  crowd,  although  talent  certainly  did  inspire 
much  respect;  and  I admit  we  youngsters  were 
all  very  proud  of  the  distinguished  company  one 
so  often  saw  there.  The  possible  possession  of 
wealth  carried  no  weight  whatever,  and,  above  all, 
no  idle  curiosity  was  ever  evinced  as  to  a man’s 
means ; nor  were  they  discussed,  unless  he  himself 
mentioned  the  subject. 

As  an  instance  of  this,  I recall  a peculiar 
mystery  surrounding  one  of  the  most  genial  of  the 
men  we  constantly  met.  He  was  supposed  to  be 
a writer  on  the  Press,  but  no  one  knew  for  what 
paper  he  worked ; and  since  he  vouchsafed  no 
information  on  the  subject  he  was  not  asked — 
suffice  it  he  was  a good  chap,  paid  his  whack,  was 
always  well-dressed,  and  was  liked  generally  by  the 
men  and  the  women.  The  mystery  lay  in  the  fact 
that  during  all  the  years  he  had  been  coming  to 
the  Rochefoucauld  no  one  had  got  to  know  any- 
thing about  him,  or  where  he  lived  even.  He 
would  generally  be  the  last  to  leave  the  cafe,  would 
sometimes  walk  a short  distance  with  other  men 
on  their  way  home,  then  with  a friendly  good  night 

105 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

leave  them  and  disappear — no  one  knew  where 
— till  the  following  day.  His  secretiveness 
naturally  excited  comment,  but  no  remarks  were 
ever  made  before  him  on  the  subject.  His  life 
was  indeed  one  of  those  enigmas  which  can  only 
exist  in  Bohemia. 

Bohemianism,  however,  as  we  understood  it, 
was  often  very  amusing  in  a way,  and  not  infre- 
quently brought  about  curious  predicaments ; and 
in  this  connection  I recall  rather  a funny  incident. 
One  day  a friend  of  ours,  who  had  been  away  for 
some  time  painting  in  the  country,  turned  up  at 
the  cafe  for  lunch,  and  announced  his  intention 
of  passing  the  night  in  Paris,  so  as  to  spend  a few 
hours  with  us  and  go  to  a cafe  concert  or  some- 
where and  have  a good  time.  He  was  a very  jolly 
fellow,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances  we 
should  have  been  delighted ; but  he  had  come  up 
from  the  country  in  such  extraordinary  attire  that 
the  idea  of  being  seen  with  such  a scarecrow  was 
out  of  the  question.  We  were  not  squeamish  on 
the  point  of  dress,  but  his  get-up  was  the  limit — 
even  for  Montmartre ; his  hat,  coat,  waistcoat,  and 
boots  looked  as  if  they  had  been  collected  from  a 
rubbish-heap.  Still  we  didn’t  like  to  hurt  his  feel- 
ings by  telling  him  so,  as  he  might  have  been  hard 
up  and  not  able  to  afford  anything  better — when 
after  lunch  someone  had  the  happy  inspiration  to 
suggest  our  rigging  him  up  for  the  evening  in,  as 
he  put  it  nicely,  “ a less  countrified  costume.”  After 

io6 


J.M.P 


“tiikv  \vi:kk  i).\\ci;ks  at  riii';  foi.iks’  i’.krgkrks. ” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

a little  demur  he  accepted,  so  we  managed  to  get 
him  up  somehow  and  arranged  to  dine  at  the  Petit 
Riche  in  the  Rue  le  Pelletier,  and  spend  the  even- 
ing on  the  Grands  Boulevards.  When  we  all  met 
for  our  aperitif  at  the  Cafe  Cardinal  he  looked 
quite  respectable  as  compared  to  when  he 
arrived  in  the  morning,  and  he  seemed  to  realise 
it  also. 

Then  suddenly  the  humour  of  the  situation 
struck  us,  and  with  one  accord  we  all  began  to 
“ rag  ” him,  and  during  dinner  we  were  continually 
getting  at  him — as,  for  instance,  whilst  he  was 
eating  his  soup  the  man  the  coat  and  waistcoat 
belonged  to  said  in  a mock  injured  tone,  “ I say, 
old  man,  you  might  try  to  be  a bit  careful — you’re 
dropping  soup  all  down  my  waistcoat ; you  wouldn’t 
do  it  if  it  was  your  own.”  Then  someone  else 
said,  “ Don’t  forget  that’s  my  collar  you’ve  got  on 
— you’ll  pull  it  all  out  of  shape  if  you  twist  your 
head  about  like  that  ” ; and  other  equally  idiotic 
remarks — much  to  our  own  amusement  and  that 
of  the  people  sitting  near  who  could  hear  it  all. 

In  the  street  after  dinner  we  began  chipping  him 
about  the  boots.  “ You  needn’t  walk  in  all  the 
mud  you  can  find,  old  fellow — please  remember 
they  are  not  your  boots  you’ve  got  on,”  and  so  forth 
— and  so  it  went  on  all  the  evening.  It  was  very 
funny,  we  thought,  and  we  were  roaring  with 
laughter  the  whole  time,  and  he  took  it  all  in  very 
good  part  till  at  last,  after  many  consommations  at 

107 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

different  cafes,  he  began  to  get  a bit  huffy  at  our 
persistent  ragging,  and  threw  out  a hint  that  it 
was  about  time  we  stopped  it. 

This  of  course  only  had  the  effect  of  increasing 
our  merriment.  He  then  said  some  nasty  things, 
and  suddenly,  as  we  were  walking  along  the  Boule- 
vard de  la  Madeleine,  he  stopped,  and  to  our 
surprise  sat  down  on  a seat  and  took  off  his  boots, 
and  then  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  collar  and  tie, 
and  flinging  them  with  his  hat  on  to  the  seat  he 
exclaimed,  “ Here,  take  back  your  damned  things, 
I won’t  wear  them  any  longer.”  In  vain  did  we 
endeavour  to  appease  his  wrath — he  absolutely 
refused  to  put  them  on  again.  Meanwhile  a crowd 
began  to  collect,  and  we  looked  like  being  in  for 
an  unpleasant  affair.  “ You’ve  had  your  joke  all 
the  evening,”  he  yelled,  “ now  I’ll  have  mine,  and 
you  won’t  get  rid  of  me  till  I want  to  go — and  you 
can  do  what  you  like  with  the  clothes,  I only  wore 
them  to  oblige  you.” 

Of  course  we  couldn’t  leave  the  things  on  the 
seat,  so  in  a very  sheepish  way  we  picked  them  up 
in  silence — since  it  was  evidently  useless  arguing 
with  him.  We  then  hailed  a cab,  thinking  that  the 
best  thing  to  do  was  to  get  him  home,  but  he 
wouldn’t  get  in. 

“ Oh  no,  you  are  not  going  to  get  out  of  it  like 
that — we  are  going  to  walk  back,”  he  said  in  a 
tone  that  meant  mischief. 

There  was  no  help  for  it;  we  felt  the  best 

io8 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

thing  was  to  humour  him,  so  we  paid  off  the 
cabman  and  started  walking  down  the  Rue  Cau- 
martin — to  the  vast  amusement  of  the  people  who 
had  gathered  round  and  who  were  following  us. 
They  evidently  thought  our  companion  was  an 
escaped  lunatic. 

Well,  to  cut  a long  story  short  we  managed  to 
get  him  back  to  the  hotel  where  he  was  staying 
— but  only  with  great  difficulty,  as  he  wanted  to 
stop  on  the  way  and  fight  us  all ; and  it  was  with 
a feeling  of  relief  that  we  saw  the  door  close  on 
him.  As  we  talked  the  incident  over  at  a cafe 
afterwards,  we  were  all  agreed  that  it  was  a bit 
of  luck  we  hadn’t  lent  him  a pair  of  trousers. 


109 


CHAPTER  X 


Caf4s  in  Montmartre — The  Nouvelles  Ath^nes — The  Rat 
Mort — The  Place  Blanche — Amusing  experience — An  in- 
cident on  the  Place  Pigalle — The  Abbaye  de  Thdleme — 
The  6lysee  Montmartre — The  Moulin  de  la  Galette — The 
fast  women  in  the  Rue  Breda  and  the  Quartier  de  Notre 
Dame  de  Lorette — Brasseries  and  cafes — The  frail  sister- 
hood— The  underworld  of  Montmartre — The  artists’ 
colony — Studios — Artists’  models  on  the  Place  Pigalle — 
The  studio  district — The  inception  of  the  Cabaret  du 
Chat  Noir — Rodolphe  Satis  “ Gentilhomme  Cabaretier  ” 
— Removal  of  the  Cabaret  to  the  Rue  de  Laval — Remark- 
able procession — A midnight  escapade — Artistic  sur- 
roundings of  the  Chat  Noir — The  theatre — Famous 
productions — Array  of  talent — Great  success  of  the 
Cabaret — Imitation  Chat  Noirs — The  Lion  d’Or — New 
school  of  decoration. 

There  were,  of  course,  many  other  cafes  in  Mont- 
martre which  were  also  frequented  by  artists — the 
Nouvelle  Athenes  on  the  Place  Pigalle  and  the  one 
on  the  Place  Blanche,  to  mention  only  two  where 
we  used  to  go  occasionally. 

Alluding  to  these  cafes  reminds  me  of  a very 
curious  though  perhaps  amusing  experience  I had 
on  one  occasion.  A charming  lady  (they  were  all 
charming  in  those  days)  had  promised  to  lunch 
with  me,  and  wrote  to  say  she  would  meet  me 

no 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

at  the  cafe  on  the  Place  Blanche  at  one  o’clock. 

I was  delighted,  and  got  there  ten  minutes  before 
the  time  so  as  not  to  keep  her  waiting  in  case 
she  was  punctual.  I ordered  an  aperitif,  and  not 
having  read  the  paper  that  morning  I called  for 
the  Figaro.  Absorbed  in  my  reading  I did  not 
notice  the  time ; then  suddenly  I thought  of  it,  and 
looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  half-past  one.  She 
was  half  an  hour  late  ; surely  something  must  have 
happened  to  prevent  her  keeping  the  appointment. 
All  of  a sudden  it  flashed  through  my  mind,  as  I 
looked  round,  that  our  rendezvous  was  at  the  cafe 
on  the  Place  Blanche,  and  that  I was  seated  at  the 
Nouvelle  Athenes  on  the  Place  Pigalle.  How  it 
came  about  I cannot  explain,  except  that  it  must 
have  been  a fit  of  abstraction  on  my  part. 

Well,  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  relate  I had 
paid  the  waiter,  and  was  running  as  fast  as  I could 
to  the  Place  Blanche  a few  hundred  yards  distant 
— but  she  was  not  there.  When  I got  back  to  my 
room  after  lunch  I found  a note  from  her  telling 
me  she  had  waited  for  me  for  half  an  hour,  and 
hoped  there  had  been  no  misunderstanding  as  to 
the  appointment.  She  was  good-natured  enough 
to  forgive  me,  and  lunched  with  me  another  day, 
when  I explained  the  contretemps,  putting  it 
down,  as  she  said  laughingly,  to  my  temperament 
d’artiste.  Not  many  women  would  have  been  so 
kind. 

At  the  opposite  corner  of  the  Place  Pigalle  was 

III 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

the  Rat  Mort,  then  a place  of  unpleasant  repute 
even  for  Montmartre — as  it  had  the  reputation  of 
being  frequented  only  by  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
certain  proclivities.  Still  it  gradually  seemed  to 
improve,  and  the  usual  habitues  migrating  else- 
where apparently,  it  then  got  to  be  known  that  they 
gave  an  excellent  table  d’hote  dinner  with  vin  a 
discretion  at  2.25,  and  it  was  by  degrees  taken  up 
till  at  last  one  could  actually  be  seen  going  in 
without  any  chaffing  remarks  being  made  after- 
wards; whilst  it  eventually  also  became  a place 
where  one  sat  outside  and  took  one’s  coffee  and 
so  forth. 

The  life  on  the  Place  Pigalle  was  very  interesting 
to  watch  from  the  terrasse  of  either  of  the  cafes, 
especially  of  an  evening  before  dinner;  there  was 
always  a stream  of  petites  ouvrieres  on  their  way 
home,  and  if  it  were  at  all  muddy  one  would  get 
a gratuitous  display  of  dainty  ankles. 

I remember  sitting  with  some  pals  outside  the 
Rat  Mort  one  summer  evening  taking  our 
aperitifs.  It  had  been  raining  but  had  cleared  up. 
We  were  in  a larky  sort  of  mood.  Suddenly  one 
of  us  exclaimed,  “ What  a lovely  leg  that  girl’s  got 
crossing  over  there ; if  her  face  is  anything  to 
match  she  must  be  a real  beauty.” 

“ Well,  it’s  easily  found  out,”  I remarked. 

“How?” 

“ By  going  after  her  and  having  a look,  of 
course,”  I replied,  making  a movement  as  though 

IT2 


AT  THE  CAFE. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

I were  about  to  do  so ; but  at  that  moment  the 
object  of  our  curiosity  turned  round  to  avoid  a 
passing  cab,  and  revealed  the  most  charming  of 
faces  and  figures.  She  was  indeed  chic  and  attrac- 
tive, and  we  all  gave  an  exclamation  of  approval. 

‘‘  You  are  so  daring.  Price,”  said  one  of  the 
chaps — “ ril  tell  you  what  I’ll  do : I’ll  bet  you  five 
francs  you  don’t  go  after  her  and  bring  her  back 
to  dinner.” 

“ I don’t  like  to  encourage  your  extravagance,” 
I replied  in  the  same  vein,  “ but  I’ll  take  on  your 
bet  all  the  same.” 

“ I’ll  make  it  a bottle  of  wine  as  well,  that  you 
don’t  even  get  her  to  speak  to  you.” 

Done  with  you,”  I replied,  and  picking  up  my 
hat  and  stick  I dashed  across  the  road  after  the 
beautiful  stranger.  I felt  that  my  reputation  as 
a “ blood  ” was  at  stake,  so  had  no  hesitation. 

Just  as  she  reached  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Boulevard,  and  was  walking  up  the  Rue  Houdon, 
I caught  her  up.  I was  breathless  both  with 
excitement  and  with  hurrying.  Without  pausing 
I raised  my  hat  and  blurted  out,  “ Pardon  me. 
Mademoiselle,  for  speaking  to  you,  but  will  you 
help  me  make  a fortune  ? ” 

She  stopped  dead,  and  looked  at  me  with 
astonishment,  amazed  for  a moment  at  my  imper- 
tinence in  speaking  to  her,  for  she  was  evidently 
not  the  type  of  girl  to  be  a la  recherche  d’une 
aventure. 

113 


H 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Que  me  voulez-vous,  Monsieur?  ” she  ejacu- 
lated ; then  noting  perhaps  that  I was  not  an  evil- 
looking ruffian,  she  added,  “Je  ne  vous  connais 
pas.” 

But  that  in  itself  was  sufficient ; it  only  remained 
with  me  to  start  a conversation.  In  the  distance 
I could  see  my  friends  at  the  cafe  standing  up,  the 
better  to  watch  developments.  I had  an  inspira- 
tion which  I flattered  myself  afterwards  was  a 
masterpiece. 

“ It’s  this  way.  Mademoiselle,”  I said ; “ I am 
an  artist  and  I am  looking  for  a specially  beautiful 
face  for  a picture  I am  going  to  paint,  and  as  you 
passed  I said  to  myself  that  if  I could  only  persuade 
you  to  sit  for  me  my  fortune  is  made.  So  you  can 
help  me  if  you  will ; anyhow  I offer  you  my 
apologies  for  venturing  to  accost  you.” 

It  was  bold  introduction,  but  it  caught  on. 
Although  she  repeated,  “ Mais  je  ne  vous  connais 
pas.  Monsieur,”  I could  see  she  was  not  really 
angry,  now  she  knew  my  reason  for  stopping  her ; 
so  one  portion  of  the  bet  was  already  won — now 
for  the  other.  But  in  these  few  minutes  I had 
realised  that  she  was  no  ordinary  girl  like  one 
could  meet  any  day  in  Montmartre ; so  I quickly 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  I could  help  it  the  adven- 
ture should  not  end  so  abruptly.  The  ice  was 
now  broken,  so  after  some  persuasion  I got  her  to 
let  me  accompany  her  just  a little  way  whilst  I 
told  her  all  about  my  picture — which  needless 

114 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

to  say  had  only  just  been  evolved  from  my 
imagination. 

“ Vous  etes  un  Monsieur  bien  original,”  she  said, 
as  with  some  hesitation  she  consented ; adding, 
“ Mais  seulement  un  petit  bout  de  chemin.” 

I soon  discovered,  and  to  my  surprise,  for  I had 
hoped  for  something  different,  that  she  was  quite 
a respectable  girl,  living  with  her  people  in  the  Rue 
Lepic,  and  was  employed  as  vendeuse  at  a big 
millinery  establishment  in  the  Rue  Royale.  We 
strolled  on  for  quite  a long  while  getting  more  and 
more  friendly,  till  she  gradually  threw  off  her 
reserve  of  manner  and  remarked  naively  that  any- 
one to  see  us  would  take  us  for  old  friends ; and 
then  I remembered  the  bet  and  felt  almost  ashamed 
of  myself  for  having  told  her  such  a lot  of  fibs. 
When,  however,  she  said  she  must  be  getting 
home,  and  I then  suggested  her  dining  with  me 
instead,  she  wouldn’t  hear  of  it  for  a moment. 

“ Une  autre  fois,  peut-etre,  mais  pas  ce  soir”; 
besides,  she  was  expected  home.  After  a deal  of 
persuasion  I managed  to  get  her  to  give  me  an 
address  where  I could  write  her,  and  she  promised 
to  meet  me  another  evening;  then  she  hurried 
away. 

When  I got  back  to  the  cafe  my  friends  had 
nearly  finished  dinner;  they  gave  a roar  of  laugh- 
ter when  I appeared  alone,  and  the  one  who  had 
made  the  bet  began  to  chaff  me  mildly.  I pulled 
out  a five-franc  piece  and  handed  it  to  him,  saying, 

115 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ You  have  won  that  part  of  the  bet,  old  man,  but 
ril  have  the  bottle  of  wine  with  you,  at  any  rate.’’ 
They  started  asking  a lot  of  questions,  but  I refused 
to  be  drawn. 

“ Comme  il  est  malin,  ce  vieux  Price,”  they 
declared. 

I wondered  if  they  guessed  the  luck  the  bet  had 
brought  me. 

A few  days  later  we  met  again,  but  not  by  acci- 
dent this  time,  and  I took  her  to  a very  quiet 
restaurant  away  from  my  artistic  haunts;  and  we 
sat  right  in  a corner  in  case  anyone  should  happen 
to  come  in  who  knew  her  at  home,  and  we  had 
a simple  little  dinner  which  she  chose  herself — and 
then  I told  her  all  about  the  bet  and  she  wasn’t 
the  least  bit  angry,  but  laughed  heartily  and  said, 
“ On  m’a  toujours  dit  que  les  Anglais  sont  mono- 
tones,  mais  vous  ne  I’etes  pas  au  moins.”  Then 
we  strolled  back  through  quiet  streets  in  quite 
spoony  fashion,  and  I snatched  an  occasional  kiss 
in  dark  doorways ; and  it  was  very  nice  and  all 
that — but  it  wasn’t  a bit  what  I had  expected,  for 
she  had  to  get  in  early  unless  she  was  going  to  a 
theatre,  she  told  me.  One  evening,  “ when  her 
parents  knew  me,”  she  would  perhaps  be  allowed 
to  stay  out  later.  We  had  a very  peaceful,  pleasant 
evening,  and  I promised  to  write  and  fix  another 
appointment ; but  on  thinking  it  all  over  afterwards 
I came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  w^^uld  be  better 
for  us  both  not  to  meet  again — so  I didn’t  write. 

ii6 


THE  WIIOEE  DISTRICT  WAS  IT-I.I.  OF  WOMl'X  AND  'HIIAK  SOUTENEURS. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Next  door  to  the  Rat  Mort  on  the  Place  Pigalle 
an  artist’s  house,  I think  it  was  Stevens,  with 
studio  and  garden,  had  just  been  bought  by  some 
enterprising  restaurateur  who  had  conceived  the 
original  idea  of  turning  it  all  into  a high-class  res- 
taurant; so  one  lunched  or  dined  in  the  salle  a 
manger  and  the  salon  and  the  big  studio  upstairs, 
whilst  during  the  summer  it  was  pleasant  to  take 
one’s  coffee  under  the  tree  in  the  garden  which 
overlooked  the  Place.  To  this  new  place  was 
given  the  artistic  and  resounding  appellation  of 
the  Abbaye  de  Theleme.  The  prices  were  just  a 
trifle  higher  than  elsewhere  in  the  neighbourhood, 
but  very  moderate  considering. 

Montmartre  in  those  days  was  a very  different 
place  to  what  it  is  now,  and  no  one  could  ever  have 
imagined  it  would  have  developed  into  such  a 
fashionable  resort  at  night.  The  Moulin  Rouge 
was  not  dreamed  of.  The  chief  place  of  amuse- 
ment was  the  Elysee  Montmartre  a dancing- 
hall  on  the  Boulevard  Rochechouart,  where  all 
the  smartest  and  the  fastest  girls  and  the  artists’ 
models  were  to  be  found.  Everybody  used  to  go 
there,  and  it  was  quite  the  only  thing  to  do  on 
Saturday  and  Sunday  nights  during  the  winter. 
One  was  pretty  sure  to  find  an  “ aventure  ” there 
also  if  one  was  looking  for  one.  On  Sundays,  in 
the  afternoon,  there  was  dancing  up  at  the  Moulin 
de  la  Galette,  a quaint  ramshackle  old  place 
on  the  heights  of  Montmartre. 

1 17 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

This  was  quite  a picturesque  spot  close  to  the 
fortifications,  on  the  top  of  a steep  hill.  It  was 
almost  rural  in  its  seclusion,  and  was  more  like  a 
corner  in  a small  provincial  town  than  a portion 
of  busy  Paris;  the  view  one  obtained  from  the 
terrace  alone  was  worth  the  arduous  cHmb  up  the 
ill-paved  streets  to  reach  it,  and  many  people  went 
up  only  for  this,  and  with  no  intention  of  dancing. 
The  ballroom  was  very  primitive,  as  it  had  evi- 
dently been  a big  barn  originally,  and  there  was 
no  pretence  at  all  at  luxury  about  it  or  the  gardens 
surrounding  it.  Close  by  was  the  battered  ruin  of 
an  old  mill,  from  which  it  got  its  name.  Here  the 
crowd  was  of  a very  rough  description  ; though  one 
often  met  artists  up  there,  it  was  not  at  all  artistic. 
One  was  charged  twopence  a dance,  and  a man 
used  to  collect  this  during  the  dances.  There 
were  always  a lot  of  pretty  girls  there,  but  it  was 
a somewhat  risky  thing  to  ask  anyone  you  didn’t 
know  to  dance  with  you,  as  it  was  more  than  prob- 
able her  “ macquereau  ” was  close  by,  and  he  and 
his  pals  might  set  on  you  when  you  got  outside. 
This  was  constantly  happening,  as  there  was  never 
more  than  one  policeman  on  duty  in  the  hall. 
Artists  would  go  up  there  to  look  for  a pretty  model, 
and  have  a very  bad  time  if  they  went  up  alone 
and  were  too  venturesome. 

Although  it  was  the  artists’  quarter  it  was  also  a 
hot-bed  of  vice.  The  whole  of  the  district  round 
where  I lived  was  full  of  women  and  their 

ii8 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

souteneurs,  and  in  the  Rue  Breda  and  round  about 
on  a warm  summer  evening  one  would  see  dozens 
of  them  hanging  out  of  their  windows  in  the 
scantiest  of  attire,  and  they  would  often  beckon 
one  to  come  up  if  they  thought  one  looked  like 
a possible  client.  I never  accepted  one  of  these 
invitations  myself,  but  men  told  me  they  had  at 
times,  if  they  felt  they  wanted  cheering  up  before 
dinner,  instead  of  having  an  aperitif.  There  was, 
however,  no  necessity  to  go  out  of  one’s  way  to 
look  up  at  the  windows  for  such  adventures  if  one 
were  so  minded,  as  the  streets  of  the  Quartier  de 
Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  fairly  reeked  with  cocottes, 
and  they  were  to  be  seen  everywhere — gorgeously 
dressed  in  the  latest  of  fashion,  and  painted  up  to 
their  eyes.  There  were  any  number  of  brasseries 
and  cafes  which  were  crowded  with  them  of  a night 
— where  one  saw  every  possible  grade  of  frail 
sisterhood. 

I shall  never  forget  my  first  impressions  of  one 
of  these  places.  It  was  close  on  daybreak.  In 
the  hot,  fetid  atmosphere,  reeking  with  musk  and 
the  fumes  of  stale  tobacco  smoke,  the  crowd  of 
wanton  women  with  their  painted  and  powdered 
faces  and  tawdry  finery  appeared  almost  inhuman. 
I remember  that  on  looking  round  I wondered  what 
attraction,  sensually  or  otherwise,  these  bedizened 
trollops  could  possibly  present,  even  to  the  most 
drunken  debauchee,  for  most  of  them  were  quite 
middle-aged,  and  I did  not  see  one  with  any 

119 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

pretension  to  good-looks.  There  were  very  few 
men  in  the  cafe,  and  the  women  sat  at  the  tables  in 
gloomy  silence,  for  time  was  getting  on  and  soon 
the  place  would  be  closing,  and  then  naught  would 
remain  but  to  make  their  way  wearily  to  the  all- 
night  houses  near  the  Halles  Centrales,  the  last 
hope  of  the  Paris  street-walker — out  of  luck. 

It  was  indeed  a picture  of  the  underworld  of 
a great  city.  There  were  also  not  a few  places  in  the 
neighbourhood  which  enjoyed  a peculiar  notoriety 
distinctly  Parisian,  where  the  sterner  sex  were 
seldom  to  be  seen.  In  fact  so  hot  ” was  the  district 
that  I often  wondered  if  any  respectable  female 
really  lived  in  it.  The  artists’  colony  adjoined, 
and  in  places  overlapped  it — ^whether  by  accident 
or  design  one  can  only  surmise ; anyhow,  one  would 
find  studios  in  all  the  streets  around  the  Place 
Pigalle — ^whilst  along  the  Boulevard  there  seemed 
to  be  one  in  every  house,  judging  from  the  immense 
windows  facing  north;  in  fact  some  houses  con- 
sisted only  of  studios.  The  frame-makers  and 
colour  merchants  apparently  thrived  well  in  this 
quarter,  for  there  were  numbers  of  them.  Artists’ 
models,  mostly  Italians,  male  and  female,  used  to 
loiter  about  the  centre  of  the  Place  Pigalle  waiting 
for  a job — and  with  their  picturesque  costumes 
imparted  a bright  welcome  note  of  colour  on  a sunny 
morning. 

The  studio  district  stretches  now  right  up  the 
heights  of  Montmartre — but  I am  only  concerned 

120 


“the  women  sat  at  the  tables  in  gloomy  silence. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

with  the  part  where  I lived  at  that  time,  and  which 
was  the  original  colony — the  Boulevard  Roche- 
chouart,  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy,  and  some  of  the 
neighbouring  streets.  It  now  extends  as  far  as 
the  Parc  Monceau.  No  description  of  the  quarter 
would  be  complete  without  some  mention  of  the 
famous  Cabaret  du  Chat  Noir  which  had  just  been 
opened  in  the  Rue  de  Laval  (now  the  Rue  Victor 
Masse)  by  the  artist,  poet,  and  writer,  Rodolphe 
Salis. 

Originally  started  on  the  Boulevard  Roche- 
chouart  in  i88i,  in  a modest  shop  which  served  as 
studio  for  Salis,  it  became  the  rendezvous  of  all 
the  eccentric  artists,  poets,  musicians,  and  writers 
of  Montmartre,  who  gave  full  vent  to  the  most 
revolutionary  theories  in  their  work,  whilst  osten- 
sibly drinking  the  comparatively  harmless  beer  of 
France.  These  reunions  gradually  became  talked 
about  and  other  people  outside  the  little  set 
became  attracted  to  the  place.  The  growing 
eclat  of  the  coterie  decided  Salis  to  transform  his 
studio  into  an  artistic  cabaret  which  he  described 
as  being  under  the  proprietorship  of  a “ Gentil- 
homme  Cabaretier  ” and  pour  verser  a boire  a 
tous  ceux  qui  gagnent  artistiquement  le  soif.” 

The  walls  were  plentifully  adorned  with  old 
tapestry  and  other  quaint  decorations  and  paint- 
ings, as  well  as  with  busts  of  the  original  members. 
A magnificent  black  cat,  which  had  served  as 
model  to  several  artists,  was  the  oriflamme  of  the 

I2I 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

little  establishment  which  henceforth  blazoned  out 
under  the  sonorous  appellation  of  “ L’Institut  ” (a 
skit  on  the  famous  temple  of  Science  and  Art  of 
Paris),  and  where  only  those  who  made  their  living 
by  their  intellect  were  eligible  as  members. 
Gradually  the  vogue  of  the  place  spread  amongst 
the  artists  and  writers  away  from  Montmartre,  and 
it  became  generally  known  as  the  “ Chat  Noir.’’ 
The  artistic  soirees  of  Salis  began  to  be  talked 
about ; the  tickets  of  invitation  to  these  gatherings 
were  eagerly  sought  after,  till  at  length  the  modest 
ci-devant  shop  became  too  small  to  contain  all 
those  who  wished  to  be  present. 

In  the  face  of  such  extraordinary  success,  Salis 
decided  to  move  the  “ Institut  ” to  more  important 
,nd  convenient  premises  in  the  Rue  de  Laval  in 
1885.  The  removal  of  the  cabaret  from  its  old 
quarters  was  made  in  the  most  original  and  fantas- 
tic style — as  might  have  been  expected  from  so 
many  fertile  brains.  At  eleven  at  night  a remark- 
able and  picturesque  procession  was  formed,  and 
to  the  accompaniment  of  weird  music  the  members 
marched  through  the  streets  with  their  bag  and 
baggage  to  their  “ new  home  ” ; whilst  the  whole 
quarter  turned  out  to  witness  the  most  curious 
spectacle  that  had  ever  been  offered  to  Montmartre. 
The  festivity  in  connection  with  the  removal  of 
the  “ Chat  Noir  ” continued  late  in  the  night,  and 
some  of  the  younger  and  more  boisterous  of  the 
followers  of  Salis  were  so  carried  away  by  the 

122 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

exuberance  of  their  spirits  that  they  started  playing 
pranks  outside  the  cabaret,  which  might  have 
landed  them  in  trouble.  As  it  was,  they  only 
escaped  through  a fortuitous  circumstance  which 
was  quite  amusing  in  itself. 

About  two  in  the  morning  half  a dozen  or  so 
of  young  fellows,  my  cousin  Jephson  amongst 
them,  after  all  sorts  of  hare-brained  escapades, 
started  scaling  lamp-posts  and  turning  out  the 
gas.  They  were  thus  merrily  engaged  when  some 
sergents  de  ville  suddenly  appeared  on  the  scene, 
arrested  them  all,  and  conveyed  them  to  the 
nearest  poste  de  police,  where  they  were  brought 
before  the  officer  on  a charge  of  riotous  behaviour. 
Though  doubtless  accustomed  to  such  boyish 
pranks  on  the  part  of  artists  and  students,  he 
assumed  a very  grave  air,  expatiated  on  the 
heinousness  of  their  conduct,  and  told  them  to 
their  astonishment  that  they  would  have  to  prove 
their  identity ; also  that  unless  they  could  find  bail 
he  would  not  let  them  out  till  they  had  seen  the 
Commissaire  the  following  day. 

Here  was  a pretty  ending  to  a night’s  amuse- 
ment ; but  there  was  no  help  for  it,  since  he  refused 
to  regard  it  all  as  a harmless  joke,  so  they  began 
producing  letters  and  cards  to  prove  their  respecta- 
bility. Jephson  alone  had  neither  a card  nor  a 
letter  on  him — but  in  searching  his  pockets  he 
came  across  a “ spoof  ” letter  that  a facetious 
London  friend  had  posted  to  his  rooms  in  the 

123 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Rue  St  Georges  that  day.  It  was  addressed  thus : 
“To  the  Right  Honourable  Lord  Sir  Charles 
Jephson,  Esquire,  N.B.  R.S.V.P.,  etc.  etc.,  dans  son 
Hotel  de  Saint  Georges — a Paris.’’ 

In  a spirit  of  banter  he  handed  the  envelope  to 
the  official,  who  read  it  attentively.  The  effect 
produced  was  astounding;  he  rose  from  his  chair 
and  with  an  obsequious  bow  assured  Jephson  that 
he  would  accept  his  assurance  that  he  and  all  his 
friends  would  attend  before  the  Commissaire  when 
ordered  to  do  so — or  words  to  that  effect.  So 
they  all  trooped  out  of  the  station  again,  and 
curiously  enough  they  heard  no  more  of  the  affair ; 
which  perhaps  proved  that  even  in  a Republican 
country  like  France  a high-sounding  title  still 
carries  weight. 

The  new  habitation  of  the  “ Chat  Noir  ” was  a 
veritable  museum,  as  all  its  members  had  contri- 
buted towards  its  embellishment  by  presenting 
artistic  treasures  in  the  shape  of  furniture,  pictures, 
old  china,  pewter,  armour,  and  tapestry.  From 
the  entrance  and  up  to  the  second  floor  it  was  a 
series  of  surprises.  A gigantic  Swiss  guard,  hal- 
berd in  hand,  stood  at  the  doorway ; on  entering 
one  was  confronted  with  a huge  carved  fireplace — 
flanked  on  either  side  by  two  grotesque  black  cats. 
The  place  had  been  designed  on  the  lines  of  an 
old  Flemish  hostelry;  the  greatest  humoristic 
artists  of  the  day  had  decorated  it,  and  it  was 
unique  in  all  its  details.  The  beer  tankards,  glass, 

124 


AT  THE  “chat  XOIK.’’ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

and  crockery  were  delightful — even  the  waiters 
were  picturesque,  and,  garbed  as  Academicians, 
bore  themselves  with  becoming  dignity.  On  the 
first  floor  was  a tiny  theatre  where  veritable  chefs- 
d’oeuvre  were  given  by  their  authors  by  means 
of  silhouettes  on  a white  screen  with  a strong  light 
behind. 

When  it  is  mentioned  that  such  masters  of  satire 
as  Caran  d’Ache,  Willette,  Uzes,  Pille,  and  Henri 
Riviere  collaborated  in  their  production,  it  will 
be  realised  how  spirituelle  were  those  shows. 
L’Epopee,  La  tentation  de  Saint  Antoine,  and 
L’enfant  Prodigue  amongst  others  became  famous, 
and  attracted  all  Paris.  Quite  an  attroupement  of 
talent  was  gradually  gathered  at  the  “ Chat  Noir  ” — 
and  Alphonse  Allais,  Jules  Jouy,  Maurice  Donnay, 
Jean  Rameau,  A.  Masson,  Mouloya,  MacNab, 
and  Delmet  all  gave  readings  of  their  first  composi- 
tions here. 

For  some  years  these  and  other  equally  clever 
attractions  drew  crowds  to  the  Rue  de  Laval ; but 
as  nothing  succeeds  like  success,  rivals  in  the  shape 
of  other  quaint  cabarets  and  brasseries  gradually 
sprung  up.  There  were  more  men  in  Montmartre 
with  original  ideas,  and  so  it  came  about  that  the 
inception  and  success  of  the  “ Chat  Noir  ” un- 
doubtedly brought  about  extraordinary  changes,  not 
only  in  the  life  of  Montmartre  but  in  the  world  of 
entertainment  generally.  In  a very  few  years  there 
were  imitation  ‘‘  Chat  Noirs  ” all  over  the  district, 

125 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

and  then  the  rage  extended  to  the  Grands  Boule- 
vards, where  a delightfully  decorated  and  appointed 
restaurant,  built  also  on  the  lines  of  an  old  Flemish 
auberge,  was  opened  under  the  name  of  the  Lion 
d’Or,  in  the  Rue  du  Helder.  Many  others,  too 
numerous  to  mention,  followed — in  all  of  which 
the  original  conception  of  Salis  could  be  traced — 
namely,  to  give  scope  to  eccentric  genius  and 
original  thought — with  the  result  that  a new  school 
of  decoration  sprang  up,  which  gradually  ousted 
time-worn  academic  methods,  and  which  still  holds 
its  own. 


126 


CHAPTER  XI 


Commission  to  paint  portrait  of  Monsieur  Thomas  for  the 
Salon — I make  a start — A studio  in  the  Rue  de  Reuilly — 
Amusing  episode — The  portrait  finished — “ Sending-in  ” 
day — “ Accepted  ” — A little  dinner  to  celebrate  event — A 
funny  incident — The  lady  and  the  lion — The  Vernissage  at 
the  Salon — Coveted  invitations — The  eventful  day — The 
scene  outside  the  Palais  de  1’ Industrie — The  search  for 
one’s  picture — The  crowd — Smart  people — Dejeuner  at 
Ledoyens — The  scene  in  the  Sculpture  Hall  after  lunch — A 
drive  in  the  Bo'is  and  a bock  at  the  Cascade. 

Monsieur  Thomas  had  promised  me  when  I 
started  work  at  the  Ecole  that  one  day  when  I 
had  got  on  a bit  he  would  let  me  paint  his  portrait 
for  the  Salon.  I now  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
when  I might  remind  him  of  it — and,  moreover, 
this  would  be  my  first  attempt  at  exhibiting  a 
picture.  There  were  three  months  before  send- 
ing in,  but  knowing  what  a busy  man  he  was  I 
felt  my  only  chance  of  getting  it  completed  in 
time  would  be  if  he  would  let  me  commence  at 
once.  To  my  delight  he  consented,  and,  good 
fellow  that  he  was,  he  told  me  that  he  would  pay 
me  five  hundred  francs  for  it,  with  an  extra  five 

127 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

hundred  francs  if  it  got  hung.  I wanted  no  such 
incentive,  as  I intended  to  try  my  best  to  make  a 
success  of  the  portrait;  still  it  would  certainly  be 
five  hundred  francs  the  more  if  it  got  in,  and  the 
money  would  be  very  useful.  I already  started, 
in  my  mind,  laying  it  out,  in  furniture  principally. 

The  principal  question  was  where  to  paint  the 
great  work,  as  I had  no  studio.  This,  however, 
was  solved  by  the  kind  suggestion  that  I should 
do  it  at  the  Rue  de  Reuilly,  where  there  was  a 
good-sized  room  with  the  requisite  north  light. 
So  one  day  I took  a canvas,  my  easel,  and  my 
paint-box  over  there  and  made  a start.  We  had 
decided  that  half  life-size  would  be  better  than 
painting  it  in  unwieldy  dimensions,  as  one  had  to 
consider  where  it  could  be  placed  later.  It  was 
quite  like  a return  to  my  early  days  at  the  Ecole, 
when  I found  myself  once  more  continually  in  the 
company  of  my  old  friends.  Not  that  I had 
neglected  them,  but  many  things  had  happened 
during  the  two  years  and  a half  that  had  elapsed 
since  I had  come  to  Paris,  and  we  had  not  seen 
each  other  quite  so  regularly  as  at  first — when 
Sunday  was  my  jour  de  famille.  The  old  hearty 
welcome  was  still  there  though ; they  received  me 
as  they  would  have  their  own  son — and,  indeed, 
I felt  as  if  it  were  my  home  I was  returning  to. 

To  move  out  the  furniture  and  abandon  the 
room  entirely  to  me,  in  order  to  give  me  every 
chance  of  my  doing  my  best,  was  the  first  step ; and 

128 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

in  a very  short  time  it  was  fixed  up  as  cosily  as  if 
it  had  been  a real  studio.  The  idea  that  the  whole 
house  was  being  upset  to  suit  me  never  seemed 
to  occur  to  these  kind-hearted  people.  Working 
under  such  delightful  conditions,  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  I put  my  best  efforts  into  the 
portrait,  and  Monsieur  Thomas  helped  me  by 
sitting  as  often  and  as  long  as  he  could;  in  fact, 
his  good-nature  was  quite  remarkable — the  recol- 
lection even  now  of  one  instance  in  particular  still 
makes  me  smile.  It  is  sufficiently  amusing  to  be 
recounted. 

In  my  enthusiastic  endeavour  to  produce  a 
masterpiece  I was  painstaking  to  a degree — and 
one  day  I evolved,  as  I thought,  the  brilliant  idea 
that  the  high  lights  in  the  face  could  be  studied 
better  if  some  greasy  matter  was  used  so  as  to 
catch  the  light.  It  occurred  to  me  that  cold  cream 
would  serve  this  purpose  without  being  unpleasant. 
My  friend,  without  a second’s  hesitation,  fell  in 
with  my  views,  and  actually  agreed  to  cover  his 
face  with  cold  cream  for  the  purpose.  I shall 
never  forget  the  funny  appearance  he  presented 
when  this  was  done.  It  was  a cold  winter’s  day, 
yet  he  looked  as  though  it  was  the  height  of 
summer,  and  that  he  was  perspiring  profusely. 

I was  getting  on  splendidly  with  my  work  and 
congratulating  myself  on  this  idea,  when  suddenly 
came  a knock  at  the  door.  Monsieur  was  wanted 
immediately  in  his  bureau — it  was  most  urgent. 

129  I 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Completely  forgetting-  the  state  of  his  face  Mon- 
sieur Thomas  dashed  out  of  the  room.  I learned 
afterwards  that  it  was  an  important  customer  who 
had  called,  and  the  effect  on  him  of  seeing  Monsieur 
Thomas  arrive  in  such  an  extraordinary  condition 
could  better  be  imagined  than  described.  It  took 
some  explaining,  and  then  they  both  laughed 
heartily — but  there  was  no  more  cold  cream  after 
that;  I had  to  do  the  high  lights  as  best  I could 
without. 

I used  to  go  there  several  days  a week  after 
leaving  the  Ecole,  get  there  in  time  for  lunch,  and 
have  a couple  of  hours’  painting  after.  So  I 
managed  to  get  the  work  completed  well  in  time 
for  sending-in  day.  On  the  previous  evening 
several  friends  were  invited  to  dinner  especially 
to  see  the  result  of  my  labour,  and  of  course 
nothing  but  compliments  passed,  as  might  have 
been  expected — whatever  they  thought.  Still,  it 
was  not  altogether  a bad  portrait,  and  the  best 
work  I had  yet  done.  It  went  in  and  I passed 
days  of  anxious  waiting  till  the  glad  tidings  came 
that  it  was  accepted.  Everyone  at  the  Rue  de 
Reuilly,  even  to  the  ouvriers,  were  delighted,  for 
somehow  they  all  seemed  to  be  interested  In  my 
career,  whilst  up  at  Montmartre,  amongst  my 
artistic  friends,  we  had  a little  dinner  to  celebrate 
the  event,  and  several  petites  amies  came,  and  we 
had  a jolly  evening. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  be  accepted ; it  now 

130 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

remained  to  be  seen  how  I had  been  hung — for  on 
that  depended  the  success  of  the  picture.  I should 
know  nothing  of  this  till  the  Vernissage,”  that 
most  important  of  events,  from  the  artist’s  point 
of  view,  of  the  whole  year. 

I remember  a funny  incident  that  occurred  just 
before  sending-in  day,  when  several  of  us  were  in 
a friend’s  studio.  He  was  a very  clever  painter 
of  animals,  and  was  exhibiting  that  year  a very 
important  subject,  in  which  a magnificent  lion 
figured  prominently.  We  were  all  admiring  the 
painting  when  another  artist  arrived  accompanied 
by  a lady — also  to  look  at  the  picture.  As  we  all 
knew  each  other  we  began  chatting  and  discussing 
the  work.  The  artist,  I forgot  to  mention,  was 
out  at  the  time.  The  lady  was  immensely  inter- 
ested in  the  lion  especially,  and  asked  a lot  of  naive 
questions  as  to  how  the  painter  had  managed  to 
get  one  to  sit  for  him.  This  somehow  started  us 
joking,  and  she  was  told  very  seriously  that  the 
lion  in  question  had  been  brought  to  the  studio, 
and  that  there  was  no  difficulty  for  an  animal 
painter  to  get  wild  beasts  as  models,  provided  he 
could  afford  to  pay  the  exorbitant  fees  asked  by 
their  owners  for  their  services.  In  fact,  large 
fortunes  had  been  made  by  the  lucky  proprietors 
of  giraffes,  hippopotami,  etc.  All  this  was  told 
with  an  air  of  the  utmost  sincerity,  and  she 
evidently  believed  every  word  of  it — when  she 
suddenly  remarked,  with  a laugh,  that  she  hoped 

131 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

there  were  no  lions  about  the  studio,  as  she  didn’t 
like  them  unless  they  were  in  a cage. 

‘‘  In  a cage,”  someone  reiterated.  “ Artists  don’t 
paint  lions  in  cages ; when  they  want  them  they 
are  brought  to  the  studios  and  left  to  roam  about 
all  over  the  place.” 

“ But  it  must  be  very  dangerous  at  times,”  safd 
the  lady. 

“Yes,  indeed,”  she  was  informed;  “in  fact  so 
much  so  that  that  explained  why  this  class  of 
picture  fetched  such  high  prices,  as  several  men 
had  been  devoured  by  their  models.” 

A puzzled  look  came  over  the  face  of  the  demoi- 
selle ; then  she  suddenly  seemed  to  think  that 
we  were  having  a joke  at  her  expense,  for  she 
remarked  with  a laugh  that  perhaps  there  were 
a few  lions  still  about  the  place. 

“ Rather,”  we  told  her;  “ he  always  keeps  them 
in  his  bedroom ; there  is  one  in  there  now.  Go 
and  see  for  yourself ; that’s  the  door.” 

She  hesitated,  for  all  this  had  been  told  her 
most  seriously;  then  probably  to  show  she  didn’t 
believe  us  she  went  and  opened  the  door  and 
looked  into  the  room.  To  our  utter  astonishment 
we  heard  something  spring  forward;  there  was 
what  sounded  like  a bloodcurdling  roar  of  a wild 
beast — and  the  lady,  with  a horrified  shriek, 
dropped  in  a faint  on  the  floor. 

We  rushed  forward  and  found  that  the  wild 
beast  was  a huge  boarhound  belonging  to  the 

132 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

artist,  which  he  had  chained  to  the  bed  before 
going  out,  and  it  was  in  sheer  delight  at  being 
visited  that  it  had  given  the  bark,  which  to  our 
startled  ears  had  sounded  like  a roar. 

The  lady  soon  recovered,  and  when  she  learned 
that  the  supposed  lion  was  only  a dog  after  all 
she  quickly  regained  her  composure,  to  our  great 
relief ; and  she  ended  by  laughing  heartily  at  the 
extraordinary  denouement  to  our  silly  badinage — 
for  the  shock  might  easily  have  had  serious  results. 

The  “ Vernissage  ” at  the  Salon  was,  in  my 
time,  not  only  the  most  important  day  of  the  year 
for  the  artist  who  was  exhibiting,  but  also  for  the 
fashionable  world  of  Paris,  as  it  was  looked  upon 
as  one  of  the  principal  events  of  the  season. 
Although  nominally  the  day  on  which  the  artist 
was  invited  to  inspect,  and,  if  necessary,  varnish 
his  work — and  therefore  quite  a professional 
affair — it  had  gradually  developed  into  a big 
society  function.  Everybody  who  fancied  himself 
or  herself  had  to  be  seen  there.  In  those  days 
invitations  for  the  “Vernissage’’  were  amongst 
the  most  coveted  and  sought  after  of  anything 
during  the  Paris  season.  It  followed,  therefore, 
that  year  by  year  the  crowd  of  people  who  had 
some  claim  to  being  invited  to  be  present  went 
on  increasing  in  number  till  it  at  last  occurred  to 
the  powers  that  it  could  be  made  into  a paying 
as  well  as  a fashionable  affair,  so  they  charged 
for  admission  instead  of  issuing  invitations — and 

133 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

now  everyone  with  a louis  to  spare  can  be  present 
at  the  “ Vernissage.”  It  has,  therefore,  become 
more  a sort  of  expensive  “ dress  rehearsal  ” before 
the  ordinary  opening  day,  though  it  still  retains  to 
a certain  extent  its  old  prestige.  Needless  to  add, 
that  the  actual  exhibitors  do  not  pay  for  the  privi- 
lege of  being  present.  At  the  time  I am  about 
to  describe,  the  Vernissage  ” at  the  Palais  de 
rindustrie  still  retained  its  original  eclat. 

My  carte  entitled  me  to  take  a friend,  so,  of 
course.  Monsieur  Thomas  accompanied  me.  He 
was  as  keen  on  going  as  I was,  apart  from  the 
fact  that  his  portrait  was  there — for  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  attending  society  gatherings,  the 
hospitable  abode  of  the  Rue  de  Reuilly  being  in 
every  respect  remote  from  the  Faubourg  St 
Germain  or  the  Parc  Monceau.  My  friends  were 
estimable,  simple  bourgeois,  without  any  preten- 
sions to  social  rank. 

If  I remember  rightly  the  Salon  opened  at  the 
early  hour  of  nine ; anyhow  we  got  there  some 
time  before — so  as  not  to  miss  anything  of  this 
eventful  day  in  my  career,  as  I was  exhibiting  for 
the  first  time.  It  was  indeed  a motley  crowd  we 
saw  on  our  arrival — for  we  were  not  the  first  by  a 
great  many.  Of  course  at  that  matutinal  hour 
only  artists  and  their  personal  friends  were  present 
— the  fashionable  throng  did  not  arrive  till  some 
hours  later.  Around  us  was  Bohemia  in  its  every 
aspect,  from  the  well-to-do  painter  down  to  the 

134 


xMY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

slovenly,  ill-dressed,  unkempt  “ rapin,”  whose 
principal  claim  to  artistic  merit  usually  consists  in 
the  length  of  his  hair,  his  generally  disreputable 
appearance,  and  a large  paint-box  hung  on  his 
shoulder.  Amongst  this  singular  assemblage  was 
a plentiful  sprinkling  of  the  fair  sex — mostly  pretty 
young  girls,  probably  bonnes  amies  or  models ; 
no  gathering  of  French  artists  could  be  representa- 
tive otherwise — and  these  were  as  outre  in  appear- 
ance as  their  cavaliers.  One  could  almost  fancy 
one  recognised  in  the  crowd  our  old  friends,  Mimi 
Pinson  and  Musette,  whilst  surely  Rodolphe  and 
Schaunard  were  also  there  in  the  flesh.  It  was 
indeed  a curious  scene,  and  over  all  was  an  air  of 
enthusiasm  and  gaiety  in  the  bright  early  morning 
sunshine,  with  all  around  radiant  in  the  warmth  of 
spring.  It  made  an  unforgettable  impression  on 
me,  for  I was  only  twenty-one  at  the  time. 

The  doors  opened  at  last,  and  after  exchanging 
my  Vernissage  for  an  exhibitor’s  ticket — (how 
proud  I felt  when  I signed  my  name  on  it) — we 
made  our  way  upstairs  to  the  galleries.  Then 
began  a wearisome  search,  for  the  catalogue  was 
not  ready,  and  there  did  not  seem  at  first  any 
method  in  the  arrangement  of  the  endless  rooms. 
Everyone  was  rushing  about  hither  and  thither, 
apparently  in  the  same  aimless  fashion.  I felt  so 
pleased  at  having  been  hung  at  all  that  I did  not 
dare  to  look  for  my  picture  anywhere  but  in  the 
worst  and  highest  positions — not  venturing  to  hope 

135 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 
for  anything  better,  and  Monsieur  Thomas  appar- 
ently agreed  with  me. 

All  of  a sudden  he  gave  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  delight — for  there  was  his  portrait 
not  only  on  the  line  but  in  the  very  centre  of  a 
room  also.  It  could  not  possibly  have  been  placed 
in  a better  position. 

T urning  to  me  he  gripped  me  by  the  arm  with  his 
strong  hand  and  said,  “ Mon  cher  Julius,  je  te  fais 
mes  sinceres  compliments,  tu  as  bien  merite  d’etre 
si  bien  place,”  and  I fancied  I noticed  a tremor 
in  his  honest  voice.  From  that  moment  I remem- 
ber everything  appeared  to  me  as  though  through 
a rose-coloured  mist.  It  was  the  happiest  day  in 
my  life.  Then  full  of  kindly  feelings  towards  the 
world  in  general,  we  made  a tour  of  the  galleries. 
By  the  time  we  had  done  this  the  smart  people 
were  beginning  to  arrive,  and  the  rooms  getting 
crowded ; there  was  a frou-frou  of  silk  and  the 
odour  of  perfume.  On  all  sides  one  heard  the 
buzz  of  voices,  friends  greeting  each  other  with 
congratulations.  “ Mais  il  est  epatant  ton  tableau, 
mon  vieux,”  and  so  forth ; the  air  positively  reeked 
with  compliments.  Everyone  seemed  pleased  to 
see  everyone  else.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of 
gaiety  such  as  I had  never  been  in  before,  I 
thought — but  that  was  of  course  because  I was  on 
the  line,  and  so  happy.  And  then  we  went  and 
had  another  look  at  my  picture  and  met  Monsieur 
Yvon  close  by,  and  he  told  Monsieur  Thomas  that 

136 


MV  KINST  KXnmiTI'.I)  I’lCTl’RK.  PORTRAIT  OF  MONSIFl'R  I.  THOMAS. 
PARIS  SALON,  I,S8l. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

it  was  “ etonnant  comme  resemblance  et  d’un 
grand  merited’ 

It  was  now  about  time  to  think  of  dejeuner,  also 
an  important  affair  on  this  occasion.  Monsieur 
Thomas  had  read  that  everyone  went  to  Ledoyens, 
so  there,  as  he  put  it,  we  must  go — “ il  n’y  avait 
pas  a hesiter — il  faut  etre  dans  le  mouvement  ” — 
and  as  our  tickets  would  readmit  us  after  lunch, 
to  Ledoyens  we  went.  Ledoyens  has  not  changed 
architecturally  since  those  days,  but  it  has  had  to 
bear  the  brunt  of  competition,  and  is  no  longer 
considered  the  fashionable  place  it  then  was.  At 
the  time  of  which  I am  writing  it  was  quite  the 
smartest  restaurant  on  the  Champs  Elysees,  and 
so  crowded  a I’heure  du  dejeuner  on  the  Vernissage 
that  it  was  difficult  to  find  a table  as  a rule. 

Monsieur  Thomas  was,  as  I have  said,  a man  of 
magnificent  presence,  and  somehow  always  im- 
pressed maitres  d’hotel — so  in  spite  of  the  crowd 
and  “not  a table  to  be  had,”  we  were  soon  com- 
fortably seated  where  we  could  see  everyone. 
“Truite  saumonee  sauce  verte,  du  canneton  aux 
petits  pois  des  asperges  a I’huile,  des  fraises,  avec 
une  bonne  bouteille  de  Graves,  9a  te  va  t’il,  mon 
vieux  Julius?”  he  asked  after  consultation  with 
the  obsequious  head-waiter.  What  could  one 
desire  better?  And  whilst  doing  justice  to  all 
these  good  things,  we  gazed  on  the  wonderful 
crowd  around  us  and  wondered  who  they  all  were, 
and  Monsieur  Thomas  fancied  he  recognised  such 

137 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

or  such  a celebrity,  and  pointed  him  or  her  out  to 
me — and  probably  was  wrong ; but  I didn’t  know, 
so  it  didn’t  matter,  and  we  both  agreed  that  all  the 
prettiest  women  in  Paris  must  be  there. 

After  our  coffee  and  a cigarette,  we  returned  to 
the  Salon,  where  it  was  then  the  fashion  to  spend 
an  hour  or  so  in  the  Sculpture  Hall  after  lunch  to 
look,  not  at  the  statues,  but  at  the  famous  people 
present,  and  the  latest  fashions  as  displayed  by  the 
smartly  dressed  women  on  all  sides.  It  was  indeed 
a wonderful  scene  to  my  youthful  eyes.  When 
we  left  at  about  four  o’clock  Monsieur  Thomas 
remarked  that  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  return  to 
his  bureau,  so  that  we  might  as  well  make  a day 
of  it  whilst  we  were  about  it.  So  he  hailed  a fiacre 
and  we  drove  to  the  Bois  and  had  a bock  at  the 
Cascade,  where  it  was  delightfully  cool  after  the 
stuffy  atmosphere  of  the  Salon.  We  then  returned 
to  the  Rue  de  Reuilly  and  dined  out  in  the  garden, 
and  he  recounted  my  success  and  all  we  had  been 
doing  since  the  morning ; and  Madame  Thomas 
told  me  she  felt  as  pleased  as  if  I were  her 
own  son. 

When  I got  back  to  my  little  room  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Rochefoucauld  I felt  as  though  I had 
passed  a day  in  fairyland,  and  wished  it  could  all 
happen  over  again. 


138 


CHAPTER  XII 

I move  to  the  Rue  Fontaine  St  Georges — I am  commissioned 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  Madame  Thomas — Buying  more 
furniture — A house-warming — Amusing  jeu  d’esprit — I 
take  a studio  with  a friend — The  Passage  LathuUle — A 
bad  neighbourhood — Low  rental — Studio  furniture — Lady 
visitors — Impromptu  lunches — The  amateur  model — An 
amusing  experience — Attractive  personality  of  the  average 
female  model — “ Wrong  uns  ” — Earnings  of  models — 
Faux  menages — Long  “ collages  ” — Cat-and-dog  exist- 
ence— Middle-aged  ex-models — The  morals  of  the  ancienne 
cocotte — How  a collage  usually  commences — An  artistic 
anecdote — Coolness  of  Frenchmen  nowadays — An  incident 
in  a caf^ — Mon  amie  in  the  Rue  Frochot — Laughable 
incident — A lapse  of  memory. 

I HAD  now  been  at  the  Rue  de  la  Rochefoucauld 
about  a year  when  a friend  who  had  a small  apparte- 
ment  de  garcon  in  the  Rue  Fontaine  St  Georges 
just  round  the  corner  asked  me  if  I would  take  it 
off  his  hands.  It  was  so  much  more  convenient 
in  every  way  than  my  one  room,  and,  above  all, 
so  cheap  that  I jumped  at  the  chance  of  having  a 
real  apartment  all  to  myself.  It  would  seem  like 
getting  on,  anyway,  I said  to  myself,  as  an  excuse 
for  my  extravagance.  So  I took  it  and  moved  in. 

Monsieur  Thomas,  to  still  further  encourage  me, 

139 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

commissioned  me  to  paint  Madame’s  portrait  as 
a pendant  to  his  own,  so  I felt  quite  arrive.  Up 
till  then  I had  had  very  little  in  the  way  of  furniture 
of  my  own,  so  this  commande  was  more  particularly 
acceptable  as  it  enabled  me  to  increase  my  meagre 
stock  of  household  goods  and  chattels.  There 
were  lots  of  marchands  de  bibelots  round  about 
the  Boulevard  de  Clichy,  where  I managed 
to  pick  up  quite  a lot  of  artistic  odds  and  ends ; 
so  my  rooms  looked  quite  well  filled  when 
I had  finished.  And  as  I was  only  paying 
four  pounds  a year  more  rent  I had  reason 
to  feel  satisfied  with  my  bargain.  I gave  a sort 
of  house-warming,  I remember — and  found  when 
my  friends  turned  up  I was  short  of  glasses,  so 
had  to  borrow  some  from  the  concierge. 

Not  having  sufficient  chairs  didn’t  so  much 
matter,  as  one  could  always  sit  on  the  floor. 
Mentioning  chairs  reminds  me  of  a very  amusing 
jeu  d’esprit.  I had  got  to  know  une  dame  mariee 
just  about  the  time  I moved  into  the  Rue  Fontaine, 
and  after  a lot  of  persuasion  she  agreed  to  come 
and  fetch  me  one  evening  at  my  rooms  instead 
of  meeting  me  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  At 
lunch  that  day  I casually  asked  an  artist  friend — 
who  was  always  looked  upon  as  a Don  Juan,  so 
many  adventures  was  he  supposed  to  have  on 
hand — what  he  would  advise  me  to  do  with  her, 
since  she  really  was  a married  woman ; meaning, 
of  course,  whether  to  take  her  to  a cafe  concert 

140 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

or  to  dinner  or  to  supper.  It  was  doubtless  a 
stupid  thing  to  ask  him  at  all,  but  I wanted  also  to 
let  him  see  that  he  was  not  the  only  lady-killer  in 
Montmartre.  He  leaned  on  the  table,  and  stroking 
his  moustache  reflectively,  replied  after  a pause, 
“Is  it  the  first  time  this  belle  dame  is  visiting 
you?" 

“Yes,  of  course,"  I replied  unguardedly. 

“ Then  in  that  case,"  he  rejoined  gravely,  “ I 
should  advise  you  before  she  arrives  to  put  some- 
thing on  every  chair — books,  hats,  anything." 

“ What  on  earth  for  ? " I exclaimed. 

“ Farce  que  alors  mon  cher  elle  sera  forcee  de 
s’asseoir  sur  le  lit." 

I stared  at  him  for  a moment,  and  then  it  dawned 
on  me  that  either  he  was  pulling  my  leg,  or  had 
misconstrued  my  query. 

Not  long  after  I had  settled  down  in  the  Rue 
Fontaine  a friend  suggested  my  sharing  with  him 
a studio  he  felt  like  taking  close  to  the  Place 
Clichy.  From  what  he  told  me  it  struck  me  as 
being  a bargain,  and  as  I wanted  some  place  where 
I could  paint  a picture  for  the  following  year,  I 
said  I would  go  with  him  to  see  it  and  think  it  over. 
It  was  situated  in  a narrow,  tortuous-like  alley 
leading  from  the  Boulevard  to  the  Avenue  de 
Clichy — named  the  Passage  Lathuille,  and  was  one 
of  the  queerest  places  imaginable.  Though  lead- 
ing directly  from  two  very  busy  thoroughfares,  it 
was  as  ill-paved  and  as  quiet  as  a street  in  a small 

141 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

provincial  town ; at  night  so  badly  lighted  and 
so  deserted  as  to  suggest  the  possibility  of  any 
crime  being  committed  in  its  dark  purlieus  with 
comparative  impunity.  Short  cut  though  it  is,  I 
fancy  that  even  nowadays  most  people  would 
prefer  to  avoid  it  late  at  night,  for  the  neighbour- 
hood has  an  unsavoury  reputation. 

So  far  as  the  cheapness  of  the  atelier  in  ques- 
tion was  concerned,  there  was  nothing  to  be  said 
against  it,  for  it  was  only  fifteen  pounds  a year. 
One  couldn’t  well  expect  a studio  for  less — but 
there  was  nothing  attractive  about  it,  and  the 
neighbourhood  was  particularly  squalid.  Still  it 
was  an  atelier  and  it  had  been  built  as  such.  It 
was  on  the  ground  floor  of  a very  old  house  and 
the  door  opened  on  to  the  courtyard ; there  was 
only  the  studio  and  a small  lumber  closet  which 
could  be  used  as  a cabinet  de  toilette.  Well,  I 
decided  to  share  it  with  him,  so  we  took  it  at  once. 
He  had  a lot  of  odds  and  ends  in  the  way  of 
furniture,  bits  of  tapestry,  old  chairs,  and  cup- 
boards, and  such  like.  I bought  some  studio 
rubbish  such  as  pewter  plates,  a few  old  casts,  an 
easel,  and  so  forth,  and  these,  with  heaps  of  can- 
vases we  had,  made  the  place  look  really  quite 
cheerful.  I am  sure  that  we  both  felt  that  it  was 
now  only  a question  of  time  and  then  we  should 
be  moving  to  the  Boulevard  itself. 

He  was  a painter  of  “ Nature  morte,”  and  I aimed 
at  portraiture,  so  our  work  did  not  clash.  We  got 

142 


MODF.LS. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

on  very  well  together,  as  our  temperaments  and 
tastes  were  very  similar,  and  we  were  both  ardent 
admirers  at  the  shrine  of  feminine  beauty. 

Now  the  studio,  small  and  unpretentious  as  it 
was,  had  been  occupied  before  we  took  it  by  a 
painter  who  was  very  fond  of  the  fair  sex,  or  else 
was  constantly  employing  models — judging  from 
the  number  of  good-looking  girls  who  called 
during  the  first  few  weeks  to  ask  after  him.  As 
we  didn’t  know  him,  and  he  had  not  left  any 
address,  of  course  the  very  least  we  could  do,  as 
gallant  young  men,  was  to  invite  them  in,  and  do 
our  best  to  console  them  for  his  departure — usually 
not  an  over-difficult  task.  Many  a delightful 
impromptu  dejeuner  did  we  thus  owe  to  the  popu- 
larity of  our  predecessor.  There  was  a very  good 
charcutier  in  the  avenue  close  by,  where  the 
galantine  was  excellent ; also  an  epicier,  who  sold 
a wonderful  vin  blanc  at  fifty  cents  le  litre  (bottle 
included).  We  managed,  therefore,  to  get  a good 
deal  of  fun  as  well  as  work,  one  way  and  another, 
out  of  the  studio — and  the  great  charm  of  it  was 
that  it  was  generally  a I’improviste.  One  could 
never  tell  when  something  amusing  might  turn  up. 

I remember  one  instance  in  particular,  which 
will  bear  recounting,  as  it  was  the  only  experience 
of  the  kind  I ever  had  whilst  in  Paris.  My  friend 
was  away  in  the  country  staying  with  his  people, 
and  I was  pottering  about  alone  in  the  studio  one 
afternoon.  It  was  not  an  over-cheerful  place  when 

143 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

one  had  it  all  to  oneself,  as  there  was  no  look-out 
whatever — and  I was  pondering  whether  I would 
go  round  to  the  cafe  and  have  my  aperitif  when 
there  came  a timid  knock  at  the  door.  “ Entrez,” 
I called  out,  only  too  glad  of  a visitor.  There 
was  a moment’s  pause — then  the  door  opened  and 
a young  woman  entered.  From  her  diffident 
manner  I saw  at  once  she  was  not  a model,  or  a 
friend  of  our  predecessor.  She  might  have  been 
a girl  from  a small  shop  judging  from  her  very 
plain  and  homely  attire. 

“ Que  voulez-vous.  Mademoiselle?”  I asked, 
noting  her  evident  embarrassment. 

With  much  hesitation  she  then  to  my  surprise 
explained  that  she  wanted  to  become  a model. 

“ A model  for  what  ? ” I replied  thoughtlessly — 
for  she  had  no  pretension  whatever  to  beauty;  in 
fact,  she  was  a very  plain  and  commonplace- 
looking girl. 

“ Fve  been  told  IVe  got  a good  figure.  Mon- 
sieur,” she  nervously  answered,  and  then  she 
continued  with  sudden  volubility  that  she  came 
from  Amiens,  was  only  nineteen,  had  been  em- 
ployed as  a bonne  up  till  now,  but  that  she  didn’t 
like  the  work,  and  didn’t  want  to  go  back  to  the 
country  again  ; and  someone  had  told  her  she  could 
earn  quite  a lot  of  money  as  a model — and  that’s 
why  she  had  knocked  at  my  door.  The  concierge 
had  told  her  I used  models. 

I was  for  a moment  sorry  for  the  stupid  girl, 

144 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

as  I could  see  at  a glance  that  she  was  no  earthly 
good  as  a figure  model.  Someone  had  evidently 
been  poking  fun  at  her — and  I was  about  to  tell 
her  that  I was  not  in  want  of  anyone  for  the 
moment,  when  a devilish  idea  of  a joke  flashed 
through  my  mind. 

'‘Well,  Mademoiselle,”  I said,  after  a pause, 
" of  course  I cannot  give  you  sittings  without 
seeing  your  figure  first;  it’s  impossible  to  judge 
what  it’s  like  with  all  your  clothes  on.  Please 
undress  and  let’s  have  a look  at  it.” 

“ Oh,  Monsieur,”  she  replied  with  renewed  em- 
barrassment, “ I have  never  done  so  before — I 
don’t  like  to.” 

" Well,  do  as  you  please,”  I replied,  “ but  if 
you  want  to  become  a model  you  must  not  have 
any  false  modesty.  However,  don’t  worry  about 
it  to-day ; come  and  see  me  again  some  other  time.” 

She  was  on  the  point  of  going  and  had  her  hand 
on  the  door  when  she  suddenly  appeared  to  make 
up  her  mind,  and,  coming  back,  she  blurted  out, 
“ I’ll  show  it  you  now,  since  I’m  here — but  where 
shall  I undress ; not  here  in  the  studio  before 
you.” 

" Oh  you  can  manage  in  there,  no  doubt,”  said 
I nonchalantly,  indicating  the  lumber  closet. 

She  went  in  and  was  an  unconscionable  time, 
I thought,  so  I called  out,  “ Please  come  along 
when  you’re  ready — don’t  be  shy.  I’m  not  going 
to  eat  you.” 


145 


K 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

With  a sort  of  nervous  giggle,  she  then 
appeared  in  a long  white  shift  of  some  coarse 
material  such  as  I imagine  peasants  wear,  and 
stood  irresolute  before  me  where  I sat  at  my 
easel. 

“ Allons,”  I said  in  a friendly  tone  to  encourage 
her,  for  she  was  trembling  painfully,  “ you’ll  have 
to  take  that  off  also.” 

With  much  hesitation  she  let  it  fall  off  one 
shoulder,  then  off  the  other,  till  at  last,  as  if  with 
a great  effort,  she  let  it  drop  and  stood  before  me 
in  puris  naturalibus.  A glance  was  sufficient  to 
confirm  what  I had  surmised,  that  she  would  not 
be  the  slightest  use  as  a model.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  tale  she  had  pitched  me  and  the  fuss  she 
had  made  about  undressing,  I should  not  have 
looked  at  her  twice.  However,  for  form’s  sake, 
I told  her  to  take  a pose  or  two,  which  she  did 
with  about  as  much  grace  and  elegance  as  a young 
elephant.  Then  I said,  “ Thank  you,  you  can 
put  on  your  things  again.” 

She  did  not  require  to  be  told  twice ; she  made 
a snatch  at  her  garment  and  rushed  back  into  the 
lumber-room.  She  was  far  quicker  dressing  than 
undressing,  and  soon  reappeared,  looking  very  hot 
and  untidy — but  she  had  quite  recovered  her 
composure. 

“ Will  I do  for  you.  Monsieur?  ” she  asked  with 
a flippant  smile  as  she  fixed  on  her  hat. 

Her  manner  irritated  me.  She  was  no  longer  the 

146 


STC)f)l)  IRRKSOrX’TK  RKFORK  MK  WHKRE  I SAT  AT  MV  KASKl. 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

demure  little  person  that  had  entered  the  studio 
a few  minutes  previously.  I simply  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  carry  out  my  joke. 

“ Well/’  I replied  gravely,  “ if  Mademoiselle 
will  leave  her  address  with  me  I will  give  it  to  my 
master  on  his  return.” 

She  stood  as  if  transfixed.  “Your  master  on 
his  return,”  she  repeated.  “What!  aren’t  you  the 
artist  ? ” 

“No,  I’m  only  his  valet,”  I replied;  “but  that 
doesn’t  matter.  I will  make  a report  on  your 
beautiful  figure  to  him.” 

“ Oh,  you  wretch,”  she  exclaimed  with  rage ; 
“ and  to  think  that  I undressed  before  you.” 

She  was  about  to  create  a scene  and  start 
abusing  me  when  at  this  moment  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  studio  door.  Who  could  it  be  ? 

“ Attendez  ici  un  instant,”  I said  to  the  girl. 
“ Voila  du  monde  qui  arrive.” 

Going  out  I found  a friend  of  mine,  not  an  artist 
— as  a matter  of  fact  he  was  on  the  Bourse. 

“ I hope  I am  not  disturbing  you,”  he  said  with 
a significant  laugh,  for  he  evidently  had  heard  the 
girl’s  voice. 

A positive  inspiration  came  to  me;  so,  in  a 
few  words,  I hastily  told  him  what  had  happened, 
and  asked  if  he  would  like  to  have  a good  joke, 
and  follow  it  up  by  pretending  he  was  my  master. 

He  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  idea  at  once. 
“ All  right,”  he  said,  “ I’ll  do  it,  and  I bet  I’ll  get 

147 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

her  to  show  me  her  figure  also,  if  you  give  me 
time.” 

So  I arranged  that  I would  go  and  wait  for  him 
at  the  cafe  at  the  corner  for  half  an  hour.  It  was 
nearer  an  hour  and  a half  before  he  turned  up. 
He  looked  somewhat  dishevelled. 

“ Fm  simply  bursting  for  a drink,”  he  said. 
“ What  a hot  afternoon,  and  such  an  adventure,  mon 
vieux.”  Then  seeing  that  I expected  some  details, 
he  added,  “ Mais  elle  n’etait  pas  si  mal  que  cela 
cette  jeune  fille.”  He  wouldn’t  tell  me  any  more, 
and  I never  saw  her  again. 

As  a rule  I found  the  average  model — I refer 
to  the  female  ones — a very  sympathetic  and  attrac- 
tive personality,  who  actually  took  an  intelligent 
interest  in  your  work  if  she  liked  you.  There  are, 
of  course,  “ wrong  uns,”  as  one  would  find  in  any 
calling — women  who  were  simply  nothing  more  or 
less  than  “ des  grues  ” — who  would  be  found  in  the 
low  cafes  and  brasseries  on  the  Boulevard’s  ex- 
terieurs,  who  exercised  two  professions,  one  by  day 
and  the  other  by  night.  Of  these  I have  nothing 
to  say — but  the  modele  serieux,  if  she  had  any 
pretension  to  good-looks  or  beaute  du  corps,  could 
always  find  work  if  she  stuck  to  it,  and  could  easily 
earn  her  three  hundred  francs  a month. 

Unfortunately — if  one  can  put  it  so — the  atmo- 
sphere of  France  seems  to  lend  itself  to  romance 
and  the  entente,  or  sympathy,  or  what  one  will, 
which  so  often  exists  between  artist  and  model, 

148 


■‘a  VKKV  SVMI'ATIIKTIC  AND  ATTRACTIVE  PKRSOXAI.ITV.  ’ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

frequently  in  Paris  takes  a serious  and  lasting 
form.  A slight  penchant  or  a dog-in-the-manger 
desire  to  keep  her  entirely  to  himself  ends  eventu- 
ally by  his  persuading  her  to  become  his  mistress 
et  de  se  mettre  en  menage  ensemble. 

In  the  cafes  mostly  frequented  by  artists  round 
Montmartre — the  Cafe  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  of 
course,  excepted — one  saw  many  of  these  faux 
menages,  happy  enough  no  doubt  so  long  as  the 
woman  retained  her  good-looks,  but  afterwards 
often  developing  into  a cat-and-dog  existence  as 
her  middle  age  approached.  To  me  these  “ col- 
lages ” always  appeared  pathetic ; it  seemed  such  a 
pity  that  a man  beyond  the  prime  of  life,  and  with  a 
reputation,  should  live  in  this  ambiguous  and  un- 
dignified fashion ; when  arrived  at  an  age  when  his 
position  almost  demanded  a certain  pose,  he  should 
be  under  the  thumb  of  a woman  whom  he  had 
rescued  perhaps  from  the  streets,  and  who  had 
never  anything  but  her  looks  to  recommend 
her  when  young — for  these  middle-aged  passee 
ex-model  maitresses  become  more  and  more 
exigeante  as  time  goes  on. 

In  some  cases,  artists  I knew — men  of  standing 
— had  married  their  maitresses,  and  this,  with 
scarcely  an  exception,  turned  out  disastrously  for 
the  man.  It  was  merely  exchanging  one’s  fetters  of 
one’s  own  free  will  without  the  slightest  material  ad- 
vantage— except  for  the  woman.  It  may  be  replied 
that  the  women  had  given  up  the  best  years  of  their 

149 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

lives  while  living  with  these  men.  Soit!  but  it 
was  generally  done  with  their  eyes  wide  open; 
they  knew  their  men,  and  it  was  usually  with  but 
one  object  in  view — a certain  aisance,  or  perhaps 
marriage,  in  their  middle  age.  Moreover,  it  was, 
as  far  as  I could  see,  only  when  they  got  passees 
that  they  were  really  faithful  to  their  amants,  and 
that  their  virtue  became  unassailable.  Never  was 
there  truer  an  axiom  than  II  n’y  a pas  de  vertue 
plus  severe  que  celle  de  I’ancienne  cocotte.'’  When 
still  endowed  with  youth  and  beauty  they  seldom 
had  any  compunction  en  faisant  des  petites  queues, 
when  the  opportunity  presented  itself,  as  it  often 
would. 

Although  in  all  these  sordid  affairs  one  was 
constantly  being  reminded  of  La  Rochefoucauld’s 
aphorism  that  “ Everything  is  reducible  to  the 
motive  of  self-interest  ” it  often  appeared  to  me 
that  conceit  on  the  part  of  the  man  was  the  initial 
cause  of  many  of  these  miserable  collages.  A 
middle-aged  man  by  some  accident  came  across  an 
exceptionally  good-looking  girl ; whether  he  picked 
her  up  in  the  street  or  was  introduced  didn’t 
matter.  She  took  a fancy  to  him.  All  his  friends 
must  immediately  know  of — well,  say — his  good- 
fortune.  “ Une  beaute  mon  cher  je  te  la  ferai 
voir,”  he  would  tell  them  confidentially.  Then  he 
would  bring  her  to  his  cafe.  If  she  really  was 
something  quite  out  of  the  common,  his  pals, 
middle-aged  men  like  himself,  would  leer  at  her, 

150 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

pay  her  compliments  which  would  turn  her  silly 
head ; they  would  tell  him  she  was  ravissante 
mon  cher — quel  changard  que  tu  es,”  and  the 
mischief  was  done.  His  vanity  was  tickled,  and 
if  his  means  allowed  it,  he  would  henceforth  make 
her  his  maitresse — and  then  she  would  be  his 
alone,  as  the  poor  fool  would  imagine.  After  which, 
if  the  collage  continued  long  enough,  it  would 
develop  gradually  into  another  of  these  faux 
menages  I have  described — which  must  not,  of 
course,  be  confounded  with  the  charming  little 
“ liaisons  ” amongst  students  and  petites  ouvrieres 
in  the  Quartier  Latin.  These  collages  were,  as  far 
as  I could  judge,  generally  confined  to  the  artists, 
sculptors,  and  musicians  who  lived  in  the  district — 
doubtless  owing  to  the  Bohemian  existence  attach- 
ing to  their  professions. 

Talking  of  models,  there  was  a story  told  of  an 
artist  who  had  just  moved  into  a studio  on  the 
Avenue  de  Villiers.  Every  morning  he  used  to 
take  a constitutional,  and  on  several  occasions  he 
had  met  a very  beautiful  woman,  who  apparently 
lived  a few  doors  away  from  him.  He  was  so 
struck  with  her  that  he  used  to  make  a point  of 
always  going  for  his  stroll  at  the  same  hour  on  the 
chance  of  meeting  her,  although  she  had  not  given 
him  the  slightest  indication  of  desiring  to  make  his 
acquaintance.  This  went  on  for  some  days,  till 
at  last  she  gave  him  a glance,  the  meaning  of 
which  was  unmistakable,  so  the  next  morning  he 

151 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

purchased  a large  bouquet  of  flowers,  and  waited. 
She  came  out  as  usual,  and  as  she  did  so,  he  went 
up  to  her,  and  raising  his  hat,  he  asked  her  accept- 
ance of  the  flowers — at  the  same  time  telling  her 
how  long  he  had  admired  her  from  a distance,  and 
how  much  he  would  like  to  paint  her ; and  ended  by 
asking  her  if  she  would  come  and  sit  for  him.  She 
said  nothing  in  reply  to  all  this,  but  when  he  had 
finished  she  went  back  into  her  doorway  and  blew 
a small  whistle  she  carried  on  a chain.  A man- 
servant appeared.  “Jean,’'  she  said,  “put  Mon- 
sieur’s name  on  my  list.” 

We  hear  a great  deal  nowadays  of  Frenchmen 
having  lost  a lot  of  their  old  excitability.  Even 
in  those  far-off  days  of  which  I write  I found  that 
on  occasions  the  Parisian,  as  well  as  the  Parisienne, 
could  under  provocation  be  cool  enough  to  make 
me  feel  very  hot.  One  instance  in  particular 
comes  to  my  mind.  I found  myself  one  night  in 
an  enterprising  mood  seated  at  a cafe  next  to  a 
very  charming  little  lady  who  was  in  the  company 
of  a middle-aged  man.  In  the  conceit  of  my 
youth  I magnified  to  myself  what  was  probably 
but  a very  casual  glance  into  a desire  on  her  part 
to  love  me  for  myself  alone.  To  tear  a leaf  out 
of  my  sketch-book  and  scrawl  a hurried  line  thereon 
was  the  work  of  but  a moment.  Another  moment 
and  1 had  managed  to  let  her  see  it,  and  pushed 
it  along  the  seat  into  her  hand.  Swifter  still  the 
denouement!  To  my  horror,  I saw  my  billot- 

152 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

doux  handed  to  her  attendant  cavalier,  who  read 
it  as  calmly  as  if  it  had  been  the  wine  list,  and 
then  tearing  it  carefully  into  four  pieces,  handed 
it  back  to  me  in  full  view  of  the  whole  cafe — with 
an  exaggerated  gesture  of  politeness,  more  wither- 
ing than  the  most  studied  verbal  insult.  I had 
asked  for  it  and  got  it,  and  there  being  no  reply 
possible,  I suddenly  remembered  an  important 
appointment  outside.  It  is  many  years  ago,  but 
I tingle  all  over  when  I recall  my  very  poor  attempt 
at  a dignified  exit. 

At  about  this  time  a very  good-looking  lady  who 
was  living  in  the  Rue  Frochot  under  the  protec- 
tion of  a wealthy  but  aged  gentleman  honoured 
me  with  her  affection — and  would  often  come  and 
sit  for  me  when  I wanted  a model,  and  in  return 
for  this  kindness  on  her  part,  when  she  sent  round 
word  to  me  to  say  she  felt  lonely  as  her  guardian 
was  away,  I would  go  round  and  do  my  best  to 
cheer  her  up  of  an  evening  for  a few  hours.  And 
as  I was  young  and  full  of  spirits  I generally  suc- 
ceeded. She  had  a nice  apartment  on  the  ground 
floor  with  windows  on  the  street,  a very  quiet  one, 
and  I was  pretty  agile  in  those  days,  so  there  was 
no  need  to  ring  the  house  bell  when  the  hall  door 
was  closed  at  night,  which  was  very  fortunate,  as  in 
her  residence,  like  in  many  others  in  the  eccentric 
quarters  of  Paris,  if  one  was  not  known  one  had  to 
call  out  to  the  concierge  the  name  of  the  person 
you  were  visiting,  if  it  was  after  dark. 

153 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

By  the  way,  this  peculiar  custom  was  the  cause 
of  a most  irritating,  though  laughable  incident 
that  happened  to  me  late  one  night  not  far  from 
where  I lived.  A beauteous  dame  had  invited  me 
to  call  on  her,  but  as  she  had  an  engagement  for 
supper  she  asked  me  to  defer  my  visit  till  her 
return  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning — not 
an  unusual  time  for  a call  in  Montmartre.  So 
I went  to  keep  the  appointment — rang  the  bell — 
the  door  opened,  and  as  it  was  pitch  dark  inside 
I lit  a match  and  started  groping  my  way  upstairs, 
for  she  had  told  me  her  apartment  was  situated 
on  the  fourth  floor.  I had  scarcely  gone  a dozen 
steps  when  the  concierge  came  out  of  his  room 
holding  a lamp.  “ Who’s  that  ? ” he  called  out. 

‘‘  Someone  for  the  lady  on  the  fourth  floor,”  I 
replied. 

“ What’s  the  name  of  the  lady  you  are  going 
to  see.  Monsieur.^”  he  called  out  again. 

At  that  moment  my  memory  played  me  a trick 
it  has  occasionally  served  me  since,  but  never 
under  such  awkward  circumstances.  For  the  life 
of  me  I could  not  recollect  her  name.  I tried  all 
I could  to  remember  it  quickly,  as  there  was  no 
time  to  spare — but  to  no  effect.  The  concierge 
hurried  up  to  where  I was  standing. 

“Who  are  you  going  to  visit he  repeated 
roughly  this  time — and  holding  up  the  lamp  to 
see  me  better. 

I thought  it  perhaps  best  to  treat  it  as  a joke. 

154 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“To  tell  you  the  truth,”  I said,  with  a sickly 
attempt  at  a laugh,  “ IVe  clean  forgotten  her 
name.” 

“ Oh,  that’s  it,  is  it,”  he  exclaimed ; “ then  if  you 
don’t  know  who  you  want  to  see  you  must  come 
down  again  and  get  out  quick.” 

I saw  it  was  useless  arguing  with  him,  as  he 
might  have  called  for  the  police  and  created  a 
scene,  so  down  I returned  very  sheepishly. 

“ I am  sorry  you  don’t  believe  me,  but  I will 
return  to-morrow  and  prove  to  you  what  I say  is 
true,”  I said  as  I went  out.  For  all  reply  he 
slammed  the  door  in  my  face. 

I went  and  sat  in  a cafe  and  racked  my  memory, 
hoping  her  name  would  come  back  to  me  so  that 
I could  write  and  explain — but  it  was  no  use.  I 
never  remembered  it  again.  A few  days  later  we 
met  by  accident,  and  I was  on  the  point  of  speaking 
to  her,  but  she  gave  me  a look  that  froze  me  up. 
I had  a good  deal  of  nerve,  but  after  that  I did  not 
dare  to  go  up  to  her  and  say  the  reason  I had  not 
kept  the  appointment  was  because  I had  forgotten 
her  name. 


155 


CHAPTER  XIII 


The  Bal  des  Quatz  Arts — Difficulty  of  obtaining  ticket — My 
costume — Rendezvous  at  caffi — Indelicate  costumes  of 
ladies — Starting  for  the  Elys^e  Montmartre — Sergents  de 
ville  guarding  entrance — Stringent  precautions — Impres- 
sions of  ballroom  scene — Gorgeous  costumes  of  men^ 
Distinguished  painters — Nude  girls — Blatant  indecency  of 
diaphanous  evening  dresses — Extraordinary  spectacle — 
Wild  dancing  and  deafening  music — I meet  a little  model 
— Her  costume — Processions  of  different  ateliers — Wonder- 
ful effects — Supper  served — The  danse  du  ventre  on  one 
of  the  tables — No  drunkenness  a feature  of  the  ball — Pro- 
cession of  students  to  Quartier  Latin  in  morning — Arrest 
of  a nude  girl  in  street — True  hospitality. 

The  Bal  des  Quatz  Arts  was  at  that  time,  as  it  is 
now,  one  of  the  great  events  of  the  year  amongst 
the  ateliers  of  Paris.  It  is  the  Annual  Carnival 
given  by  the  Art  students,  and  preparations  for 
it  are  begun  long  before  the  date  on  which  it  is 
held.  I had  heard  such  a lot  about  it  that  I was 
looking  forward  to  the  evening  with  the  excitement 
of  a debutante  going  to  her  first  dance — and  the 
more  especially  as  all  my  friends  would  be  there, 
and  a lot  of  pretty  women  we  knew.  My  idea, 
however,  of  what  the  ball  would  be  like  was  based 
somewhat  on  the  descriptions  I had  read  of  the  Bals 

156 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Costumes  at  the  Opera  House  (where  high-born, 
wealthy  ladies  go  in  masks  and  dominoes  in  search 
of  intrigues  with  handsome  but  penniless  artists). 
I imagined  a huge  crowd  of  people  fantastically 
garbed,  such  as  one  would  expect  to  see  at  any 
big  fancy-dress  ball  in  England,  but  with  all 
the  added  verve  and  colour  and  gaiety  which  the 
French  Art  student  would  naturally  impart.  It 
would  of  course  be  a very  beautiful  and  artistic 
scene,  and  many  of  the  famous  artists  would  doubt- 
less bring  their  wives  and  daughters  to  witness  it 
My  conception  was  rather  wide  of  the  mark — as 
will  be  gathered. 

Had  I not  seen  for  myself  the  Bal  des  Quatz 
Arts,  I should  never  have  believed  that  in  modern 
times  and  in  a great  city  such  “ revelry  ’’  would  be 
possible,  even  in  the  name  of  Art.  In  my  day  the 
ball  was  held  in  the  Ely  see  Montmartre,  which  for 
that  night  was  closed  to  the  public  and  given  up 
entirely  to  the  artists.  To  obtain  a ticket,  if  you 
were  entitled  to  it  as  an  artist,  or  by  reason  of 
belonging  to  one  of  the  big  ateliers,  was  not  a 
difficult  matter,  and  the  cost,  including  supper,  as 
I will  state  later,  infinitesimal ; but  to  anyone  not 
so  accredited  it  was  more  difficult  to  get  in,  so  it 
used  to  be  said,  than  to  be  invited  to  an  official  ball 
at  the  real  Elysee.  Millionaire  Americans  have 
been  known  to  offer  untold  wealth  for  one  of  the 
coveted  pasteboards,  but  to  no  effect.  “ We  don’t 
want  rich  men  and  we  don’t  want  their  money ; this 

157 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

is  quite  a private  affair  and  we  intend  to  keep  it 
amongst  our  own  set,”  was  the  usual  reply. 

That,  however,  it  was  not  a private  affair  or 
confined  only  to  students  and  artists  will  be  seen ; 
and  to  my  certain  knowledge  many  outsiders  did 
manage  to  get  tickets,  if  they  were  in  the  swim. 
As  a bal  d’etudiants,  it  was  not  precisely  a small 
gathering  though,  as  the  number  present  usually 
ran  well  into  four  figures.  Whilst  every  pre- 
caution was,  however,  taken  to  prevent  tickets 
being  sold  to  men  who  had  no  claim  to  being  in 
the  profession,  there  were  no  obstacles  placed  in 
the  way  of  the  fair  sex  obtaining  admission  either 
accompanied  or  alone,  with  the  result  that  every 
pretty  actress  and  every  model,  and  also  many 
well-known  demi-mondaines  would  be  present. 

I will  endeavour  to  describe  my  impressions  of 
the  extraordinary  scene  as  it  appeared  to  me  on 
the  first  occasion  I went  to  one  of  these  “ balls,” 
but  I fear  that  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  years,  my  stock  of  adjectives  will  be 
insufficient  to  depict  in  mere  words  the  gorgeous 
spectacle  and  the  galaxy  of  female  beauty  I saw 
around  me. 

The  never-to-be-forgotten  evening  started  a 
couple  of  hours  before  the  ball  opened — as  a whole 
party  of  us  arranged  to  meet  for  an  early  supper 
at  a cafe  close  by.  It  was  a stringent  rule  of  the 
ball  committee  that  everyone  had  to  wear  fancy 
dress  of  some  description,  and  no  mere  faking  up 

158 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

of  an  old  dress  suit  or  eccentric  everyday  attire 
was  admissible.  I had  decided,  after  much  re- 
flection, that  an  Arab  costume  with  burnous  and 
turban  would  best  suit  my  particular  type  of 
beauty,  so  in  that  I arrayed  myself — staining  my 
face  and  hands  brown  to  give  a sunburnt  appear- 
ance, for  I was  nothing  if  not  artistic  in  those  days. 

On  arriving  at  the  cafe  I found  quite  a little 
crowd  assembled  in  a private  room  on  the  first 
floor.  All  my  friends  were  there,  and  with  them 
their  petites  amies  and  others — and  I had  my  first 
impression  of  what  the  ball  was  going  to  be  like. 
1 shall  never  forget  it.  The  men  were  in  more  or 
less  fantastic  garb,  such  .as  one  would  have 
expected  to  see,  but  what  at  once  riveted  my 
attention  was  the  attire  of  the  ladies.  Most  of 
them  were  decolletees,  if  one  could  call  it 
decolletee  when  their  bosoms  were  completely 
exposed,  and  several  had  costumes  on  of  so  trans- 
parent a material  as  to  scarcely  leave  anything  to 
the  imagination ; one  could  not  imagine  anything 
more  suggestive.  I must  admit  I fairly  gasped 
when  I looked  around  me — for  we  were  crowded 
into  a room  of  quite  moderate  size.  No  one, 
however,  seemed  to  take  any  notice  of  all  this 
indecency,  so  I regained  my  composure  and  shook 
hands  all  round  as  calmly  as  though  it  had  been 
a reception  and  it  was  quite  usual  for  the  ladies 
to  be  so  slightly  attired.  I must  confess,  though, 
that  there  were  one  or  two  very  pretty  women 

159 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

present  I had  long  admired  at  a distance — habillees 
bien  entendu — and  it  was  not  altogether  unpleasant 
to  regale  one’s  eyes  on  the  vision  of  their  now 
revealed  charms,  and  I did  not  stint  myself  either. 

Well,  after  a lot  of  badinage  and  having  some- 
thing to  eat,  for  supper  would  not  be  served  at 
the  ball  till  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  it  was 
at  last  time  to  go  to  the  Ely  see  as  there  was 
no  admittance  after  a certain  hour.  The  ladies 
donned  long  cloaks  to  hide  their  nudity  from  the 
public  gaze,  and  we  all  started.  Outside  the  cafe 
the  Boulevard  was  packed  with  people  anxious  to 
get  a glimpse  of  the  deshabille  of  the  ladies; 
and  as  it  was  a fine  warm  spring  evening  they  were 
frequently  rewarded  for  their  patience — as  here 
and  there  a pair  of  dainty  bare  legs  or  a snowy 
neck  and  shoulders  passed  through.  Whilst 
occasionally  some  particularly  original  costume 
would  draw  cheers  or  caustic  remarks  from  the 
crowd,  which  was  very  good-humoured,  and 
evidently  quite  prepared  for  all  this  artistic 
eccentricity. 

The  actual  entrance  to  the  building  was  barred 
by  a double  row  of  sergents  de  ville,  so  no  one 
not  in  costume  could  approach  too  closely ; and  at 
the  door  was  a group  of  officials  who  would  not 
admit  anyone  without  his  or  her  ticket  being  pro- 
duced. And  this  was  not  all — for  again,  and  before 
one  could  penetrate  into  the  actual  interior,  one’s 
ticket  had  to  be  submitted  to  the  scrutiny  of  yet 

i6o 


AS  HKKE  A\D  THERE  A PAIR  OF  RARE  LEGS  OR  A SNOWY  NECK 
AND  SHOULDERS  PASSED  THROUGH.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

another  line  of  officials  who  examined  them  closely, 
probably  for  fear  of  any  imitation  ones  being 
passed ; and  then  tearing  off  a corner,  which  they 
retained,  you  were  at  length  allowed  to  pass  in. 
All  this  of  course  took  time  and  was  rather  trying 
to  one’s  patience,  but  it  was  all  taken  good- 
naturedly,  for  everyone  was  in  the  gayest  spirits. 

At  last  I found  myself  in  the  big  dancing  hall, 
and  the  scene  I had  before  me  was  certainly  the 
most  extraordinary  that  could  be  imagined.  I 
had  formed,  as  I have  said,  some  idea  in  my  mind 
as  to  what  a French  costume  ball  would  be  like, 
but  never  could  I have  conjured  up  such  a vision, 
such  a kaleidoscope  of  colour  and  animation  as 
met  my  eyes.  Dancing  was  not  in  progress  for 
the  moment,  and  the  floor  was  crowded  with  every 
conceivable  costume  of  the  world,  ancient  and 
modern,  from  the  Stone  Age  to  the  Revolution 
of  ’48 ; the  men’s  costumes  being  especially  mag- 
nificent, and  in  many  instances,  I noted  at  once, 
were  carried  out  with  a regard  for  detail  which 
was  a sure  indication  of  the  artist. 

There  was  an  entire  absence  of  the  ordinary 
costumier’s  costumes  hired  out  for  the  evening 
one  always  sees  at  fancy-dress  balls.  Military  uni- 
forms, and  the  garb  of  bygone  ages,  were  worn 
by  men  who  had  evidently  made  a study  of  the 
particular  period ; so  the  effect  was  that  of  a repro- 
duction of  a fine  picture.  Distinguished  painters 
I knew  by  sight,  were  actually  in  costumes 

161  i, 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

representing  their  own  masterpieces — all  that,  how- 
ever, was  to  me  the  least  interesting  portion  of  the 
immense  concourse. 

The  costumes,  or  rather  what  there  was  of  them, 
of  the  fair  sex  must  needs  be  described ; and  how 
to  find  words  baffles  me.  I was  somewhat  pre- 
pared from  what  I had  already  seen  at  the  cafe  for 
decolletee  corsages  and  scanty  attire,  but  all  that 
was  quite  eclipsed  by  what  I now  saw — for 
numbers  of  the  girls  were,  with  the  exception  of 
a pair  of  slippers,  in  a state  of  absolute  nudity, 
and  walking  about  among  the  crowd  shaking  hands 
here  and  there  with  friends  as  unconcernedly  as 
though  there  was  nothing  incongruous  in  their 
appearance.  Of  course  most  of  them  were  models 
and  several  had  exquisite  figures,  so  the  effect  when 
one  got  over  the  first  shock  of  surprise  was  delight- 
ful— for  it  may  be  mentioned  that  only  those  with 
perfect  shapes  were  to  be  seen  thus  unattired. 
They  knew  that  no  costume  they  could  afford 
could  be  more  beautiful  than  their  own  natural 
loveliness. 

When  I had  got  over  my  bewilderment  a little, 
I managed  to  look  round  at  those  who  were  wear- 
ing some  sort  of  costume,  only  to  find  that  the 
prevailing  note,  however  beautiful  the  conception, 
was  generally  indelicacy  in  some  form  or  other ; 
not  coarse  blatant  indecency,  but  of  a distinctlv 
original  kind.  Still  it  was  amazing.  Lovely 
women  could  be  seen  walking  round  on  the  arm. 

162 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

of  perhaps  some  magnificent  Napoleonic  caval- 
ryman; at  first  sight  they  would  appear  to  be 
wearing  ordinary  black  evening  dress,  extremely 
decolletee  of  course — but  as  they  approached  you 
noticed  that  the  skirt  consisted  of  only  one 
thickness  of  tulle  or  lace  or  whatever  material  it 
might  be  to  match  the  bodice,  and  that  they 
had  nothing  whatever  on  underneath — not  even 
pantalons.  So  that  every  part  of  their  form  from 
the  waist  downwards  was  completely  visible 
through  the  transparency  of  the  skirt. 

For  unabashed  indecency  I have  never  seen 
anything  since  to  equal  those  diaphanous  evening 
dresses ; they  were  chefs-d’oeuvre  of  immodesty — 
the  nude  women  were  quite  commonplace  in  com- 
parison. After  a time  many  of  these  ladies  would 
find  their  skirts  incommoded  them  for  dancing, 
and  would  pick  them  up  and  hold  them  over  their 
arms  in  the  usual  manner  of  an  ordinary  ballroom 
— with  a result  that  can  be  better  imagined  than 
described.  One  would  not  have  been  the  least 
surprised  at  such  “ costumes  ” and  abandon  had 
one  been  at  a fete  in  a brothel,  but  they  came  as 
a bit  of  a shock  at  a ball  given  by  Art  students. 
The  music  was  of  a deafening  character,  but  calcu- 
lated to  encourage  wild  dancing;  and  it  did,  to 
say  the  least  of  it. 

Absorbed  in  my  contemplation  of  the  extra- 
ordinary scene,  I had  missed  my  friends  and  was 
quite  alone  when  suddenly  I heard  a female  voice 

163 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 


say  to  me,  “ A quoi  revons  nous,  Monsieur 
TAnglais,”  and  turning  round  to  see  who  it  was 
had  recognised  me  through  my  disguise,  I saw  a 
little  model  I knew  slightly,  through  meeting  her 
in  the  Quartier — although  I had  hardly  spoken  a 
dozen  words  to  her.  I had  always  thought  she 
was  rather  a pretty  girl,  but  as  I now  saw  her  she 
was  one  of  the  most  charming  and  piquant  figures 
imaginable.  She  might  have  been  one  of  Grevin’s 
sketches  come  to  life.  For  costume  she  had  on 
a large  square  piece  of  white  satin  with  letters 
painted  on  it  to  give  you  the  idea  that  it  was  a 
“Petit  Journal,”  with  a hole  torn  in  it  for  her 
pretty  head  to  pass  through.  This  and  a pair  of 
white  shoes  completed  her  attire.  The  slightest 
movement  displayed  her  nude  form,  as  the  satin 
was  only  the  width  of  the  small  newspaper  in 
question.  It  was  delightfully  original,  and  many 
men  crowded  round  to  admire  it,  as  she  had  only 
just  arrived. 

“ Vous  etes  done  tout  seul?  ” she  asked  after  I 
had  complimented  her  on  her  costume,  which  she 
told  me  she  had  designed  herself. 

I explained  how  I had  somehow  missed  the 
friends  I had  come  with,  then : 

“ Donnez-moi  votre  bras  et  faisons  un  tour,” 
she  said  with  the  easy  familiarity  of  Bohemia. 

I was  only  too  pleased— for  it  was  somewhat 
tiring  standing  about  alone.  So  through  the 
crowd  we  went  together;  she  clinging  to  my  arm 

164 


“tIIOSK  DIAI’HAXOUS  KVKMNG  DKKSSIvS.  ” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

as  though  we  were  old  friends.  I soon  discovered 
that  she  was  quite  a typical  little  Parisienne  of 
her  class,  and  full  of  fun  and  intelligence,  so  I felt 
it  was  a bit  of  luck  to  have  met  her — as  in  fact  it 
turned  out.  We  were  walking  round  when  I came 
across  one  of  the  men  of  my  party. 

“ Tiens  vous  voila  deja  colie,”  he  remarked 
chaffingly,  noticing  how  she  was  hanging  on 
my  arm. 

“ Pour  cette  nuit  au  moins,”  she  replied  in  the 
same  vein  as  we  passed  on. 

As  the  night  went  on  various  interesting  pro- 
ceedings took  place.  There  were  processions 
through  the  hall  of  the  different  ateliers — each 
group  representing  the  work  of  the  maitre.  Some 
were  mediaeval,  others  prehistoric,  others  Egyptian, 
and  so  forth — most  magnificently  and  realistically 
arranged  and  costumed,  or  rather  uncostumed ; 
whilst  for  stage  management  they  could  not  have 
been  surpassed — and  all  went  off  without  a hitch. 
In  one  especially  where  a wagon  drawn  by  two 
huge  oxen  passed  through  the  hall  there  was  no 
difficulty  whatever  with  the  unwieldy  brutes,  and 
vehicle,  horses,  donkeys,  and  dogs  also  took  part 
with  wonderful  effect. 

But  even  in  these  processions  the  nude  was  ever 
present,  and  no  opportunity  missed  of  displaying 
some  beautiful  female  form.  The  compositions 
were  always  chosen  with  that  in  view — evidently. 
I remember  two  groups  that  impressed  me  particu- 

165 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

larly — one  a sort  of  scene  of  the  Inquisition,  a 
lovely  nude  woman  on  the  rack  surrounded  by 
hooded  figures — the  ivory  white  of  her  flesh  against 
the  sombre  hues  of  the  men’s  dress  standing  out 
in  startling  relief.  The  other  was  Egyptian — a 
magnificent  woman,  entirely  nude  of  course,  reclin- 
ing on  rich  silk  cushions  on  a sort  of  dais  under 
a canopy,  carried  on  bamboo  poles  by  Ethiopians, 
and  preceded  by  a group  of  nude  slaves  dancing 
and  beating  cymbals.  It  was  a dream  of  the  days 
of  Cleopatra,  and  could  not  have  been  better 
staged  anywhere. 

In  one  corner  of  the  hall  one  of  the  ateliers  had 
erected  a big  booth  representing  an  Eastern  slave 
market.  The  slave-dealer,  dressed  in  tiger  skins 
and  carrying  a heavy  whip,  paraded  his  wares  in 
the  shape  of  a dozen  beautiful  young  girls  entirely 
nude,  and  it  was  open  to  anyone  to  do  a deal  if  they 
wanted  a slave.  It  was  very  realistic  and  very 
tempting,  and  no  doubt  many  men  present  would 
have  liked  to  buy  one  or  two. 

And  so  the  night  wore  on,  and  one  gradually 
got  so  satiated  with  the  female  form  divine  that 
at  last  one  took  scarcely  any  further  notice  of  it. 
About  three  o’clock  there  was  a big  movement 
and  a crowd  of  workmen  appeared,  bearing  trestles 
and  boards,  and  in  a very  short  time  long  tables 
were  put  up  all  over  the  hall ; then  white-aproned 
waiters  came  in  with  tablecloths,  napkins,  knives, 
and  forks,  and  plates  and  glasses — and  then  with 

i66 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

baskets  containing  bread,  and  cold  meats,  poultry, 
bottles  of  wine,  and  everything  for  a simple  though 
ample  cold  collation.  Then  with  much  shouting 
the  various  ateliers  sorted  themselves  out  and  sat 
down  at  their  respective  tables.. 

I had  invited  my  little  friend  the  model  to  have 
supper  with  me ; so  I had  no  difficulty  in  getting 
a seat  as  she  looked  after  all  that,  and  we  were  soon 
merrily  fixed  up.  As  may  be  imagined,  one  did 
ample  justice  to  the  homely  fare.  Towards  the 
end  of  the  banquet  there  was  a certain  amount  of 
good-humoured  boisterous  behaviour;  but  it  was 
all  very  amusing  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
although  it  might  have  shocked  a prude,  especially 
when  a nude  young  lady  got  up  on  one  of  the 
tables  and  gave  us  a danse  du  ventre  most 
realistically,  as  may  be  imagined. 

But  the  night  was  long  past — and  one  could 
note  the  daylight  through  the  windows.  Many 
little  affectionate  episodes,  not  usually  enacted  in 
public,  could  be  witnessed  around  the  tables  as 
the  hour  for  parting  or  otherwise  approached. 
Lovely  forms  reclining  on  manly  Roman  chests — 
dainty  Eastern  princesses  clinging  to  brawny 
Greek  athletes — all  combined  to  make  up  a picture 
of  ribaldry  which  brought,  I remember,  to  my 
mind  the  history  of  ancient  Alexandria,  and  the 
stories  one  has  read  of  the  degenerate  days  of  the 
Roman  Empire,  for  it  could  not  have  been  more 
debauched  even  in  those  times. 

J67 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Yet  amongst  all  this  crowd  of  revellers  I did  not 
see  one  single  instance  of  drunkenness,  and  that 
was,  I recollect,  what  struck  me  as  being  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  features  of  the  ball.  Had 
it  been  otherwise  all  its  picturesque  interest  would 
have  ceased  to  exist,  and  it  would  have  been 
nothing  but  a licentious  orgy. 

It  had  been  broad  daylight  for  some  hours  when 
it  was  over,  and  the  crowd  of  tired  and  dishevelled 
revellers  began  to  disperse  ; but  it  was  not  finished 
yet.  A procession  of  students  and  their  lady 
friends  who  lived  in  the  Quartier  Latin  formed  up 
outside  the  Elysee,  and  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a stirring  chorus  started  on  their  homeward 
journey.  The  streets  were  already  crowded  with 
ouvriers  on  their  way  to  their  work,  but  the  strange 
cortege  did  not  seem  to  astonish  them.  They 
were  used  to  such  artistic  vagaries,  even  to  the 
spectacle  of  women  in  deshabille  in  the  street,  and 
in  broad  daylight.  I learned  afterwards  that  a girl- 
model  in  a state  of  absolute  nudity  was  arrested  at 
six  o’clock  that  morning  in  the  Rue  Bonaparte ! 

My  newly  found  amie  and  I were  however  too 
tired  after  the  night’s  excitement  to  take  much 
further  interest  in  the  proceedings.  She  told  me 
that  she  lived  in  the  Avenue  Trudaine,  which  was 
quite  close  by;  so  we  walked  across  together, 
she  the  while  clinging  quite  affectionately  to  my 
arm.  We  must  have  looked  a curiously  assorted 
couple. 

1 68 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

On  reaching  her  door,  I was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  her  when  she  said  hospitably: 

“ Tu  as  ete  tres-gentil — you  can  come  up  if  you 
like.” 

I hesitated,  but  only  because  of  my  Arab  cos- 
tume ; then  with  ready  perception  she  added — 
“ Tu  enverras  ma  femme  de  menage  chercher  tes 
vetements  dans  la  journee.”  So  I went  up. 


169 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Visit  to  the  district  of  Fontainebleau — Marlotte — The  village— 
The  open-air  painters — The  village  inn — The  panels  in 
the  salle  k manger — Painting  everywhere — The  forest — The 
main  street — Food  at  the  hotel — The  petit  vin — The  table 
d’hdte — The  people  one  met — Cheery  crowd — Billiards — 
“ Le  jeu  au  bouchon  ” — O de  Penne  celebrated  painter 
of  sporting  pictures — His  maitresse — Their  marriage — His 
house  and  bedroom — Ciceri,  the  landscape  painter — His 
knowledge  of  women — “ Her  old  man’s  day  ” — The  daily 
routine  in  Marlotte — A new  arrival — A radiant  vision — The 
chic  Parisienne — A new  acquaintance — L’Inconnue — The 
commencement  of  a love  story — Delightful  days — A 
shock — The  end  of  the  romance. 

My  success  at  the  Salon  had  aroused  in  me  an 
enthusiastic  desire  to  “ go  one  better  ” the  follow- 
ing year.  I was  perhaps  a trifle  over-ambitious, 
but  that  was  more  satisfactory  than  being  down- 
hearted ; it  was,  at  any  rate,  a prerogative  of  youth 
to  be  buoyed  up  with  hopes  which,  alas,  were  too 
often  destined  not  to  be  realised. 

The  weather  was  splendid ; in  those  days,  as 
far  as  I can  recollect,  it  was  always  summer 
weather  during  the  summer  months — not  like 
now.  But  I mustn’t  start  grumbling  about  the 
weather ; it’s  doubtless  I who  have  changed,  not 

170 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

it.  Well,  to  get  on  with  my  narrative,  I decided 
to  have  an  attempt  at  something  serieux  en  plein 
air.  My  excursions  with  Stott  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Paris  had  given  me  a predilection  for  this 
style  of  work,  so  I thought  I would  go  and  see 
Fontainebleau  and  the  country  around. 

On  mentioning  my  intention  to  some  friends  at 
the  Rochefoucauld  I found  that  one  of  them,  a very 
distinguished  painter  of  animal  subjects.  Monsieur 
O.  de  Penne,  lived  quite  near  to  the  forest,  in  a 
little  village  named  Marlotte.  He  so  extolled  the 
beauty  of  the  district  and  the  simple  life  one  lived 
there — and  offered  me,  moreover,  so  genial 
a welcome  at  his  place  if  I came  down,  that 
I decided  one  day  to  pack  up  my  traps  and  go 
down  and  have  a look  round.  Of  course  I took 
my  sketching  easel,  paint-box,  and  some  canvases 
with  me,  as  in  those  days  of  enthusiasm  one  never 
went  anywhere  without  one’s  working  materials. 
Marlotte  in  those  days  was  a very  quaint  little 
village,  typically  French,  with  practically  only  a 
single  street.  It  was  but  a short  distance  from  the 
railway  station  at  Montigny — half  a kilometre  or 
thereabouts — so  one  put  one’s  luggage  in  a cart 
and  walked  alongside. 

My  first  impressions  on  arriving  were  that  the 
whole  place  existed  only  for  artists.  One  seemed 
to  see  them  everywhere ; as  an  American  quaintly 
put  it:  “ You  couldn’t  expectorate  without  hitting 
one.”  Either  painting  or  strolling  about  in  the 

171 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

weirdest  of  garbs,  they  were  ubiquitous.  There 
was  no  mistaking  them — no  one  could  have  taken 
these  unkempt  individuals  for  anything  but  artists. 
Accustomed  as  I was  to  the  eccentricity  of  attire  of 
students  at  the  Ecole,  I was  nevertheless  amused  at 
the  grotesque  appearance  of  many  of  these  open-air 
painters.  Whether  this  eccentricity  was  merely 
“ pose  ” or  part  of  the  stock-in-trade  of  a landscape 
artist  I was  never  able  to  really  decide ; but  it 
struck  me,  I remember,  as  a curious  fact  that 
personal  cleanliness,  not  to  mention  smartness 
of  appearance,  were  not  evidently  considered  as 
necessary  attributes  for  a French  painter  when 
working  in  the  country.  Perhaps  they  found 
they  could  commune  more  easily  with  nature  if 
unwashed.  I am  of  course  talking  of  many  years 
ago ; perhaps  it  is  different  nowadays.  Still,  very 
many  of  the  worst-looking  specimens  were  fine 
artists,  so  it  didn’t  do  to  judge  by  appearances. 

There  was  only  one  inn  at  Marlotte  at  the  time ; 
it  was,  however,  quite  worth  a visit  to  Marlotte 
to  spend  a day  or  two  in  it  even  if  one  had  not 
been  a painter,  for  it  was  as  quaint  and  ramshackle 
a place  as  could  well  be  imagined,  and  almost 
picturesque  in  its  way.  Originally  the  ‘Willage 
pub,”  it  had  gradually — with  the  increasing 
clientele  of  artists — become  quite  an  important 
hostelry  for  so  small  a hamlet ; and  the  raison 
d’etre  of  this  growth  was  visible  all  over  it.  It 
existed  only  for  and  by  artists,  so  the  whole  build- 

172 


‘kitiikr  paintixc.  ok  strolling  akout  in  the  weirdest  of  garbs.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

ing  reflected  this — primitive  and  cheaply  con- 
structed though  it  was.  The  salle  a manger  walls 
were  fitted  with  movable  panels  of  various  sizes, 
to  encourage  the  locataires  to  present  specimens 
of  their  work  to  the  proprietor ; with  the  result  that 
there  was  quite  a collection  of  Works  of  Art  of 
more  or  less  merit  adorning  the  room — several 
indeed  by  men  who  have  since  achieved  fame. 
The  effect  was  certainly  very  original,  and  com- 
pensated for  its  otherwise  rough  and  unfinished 
appearance.  Paint-boxes,  easels,  canvases,  and 
other  Art  paraphernalia  littered  the  place,  so  this 
hotel  ” was  practically  a sort  of  lumber-room  of 
the  great  atelier  outside — the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau ; for  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  at  the 
place  but  paint. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  fall  into  the  habits  and 
customs  of  the  place,  which  consisted  chiefly  in 
discarding  at  once  one’s  collar  and  the  getting  into 
one’s  oldest  clothes — then  with  sketch-box  slung 
over  shoulder  and  pipe  in  mouth  one  started  off 
immediately  for  the  foret.  That  was  the  magnet 
of  the  district — and  instinctively  one’s  footsteps 
led  one  thither.  It  was  scarcely  necessary  to  ask 
the  way,  for  one  had  read  so  much  about  it  and  had 
seen  it  so  often  on  canvas  that  it  was  almost  like 
going  to  revisit  one’s  old  haunts.  I remember  I 
found  my  way  the  very  first  time  to  all  the  famous 
parts  of  the  forest  as  easily  as  though  I had 
been  there  many  times  before.  Marlotte  was  very 

173 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

matutinal  as  everyone  went  out  very  early  to  start 
work,  for  the  forest  looked  at  its  best  before  the 
sun  was  too  high ; so  the  village  was  as  a rule 
deserted  during  the  morning  except  by  those 
artists  who  had  discovered  beauty  in  its  primitive 
streets  or  the  surrounding  lanes,  and  who  therefore 
had  their  subject  close  at  hand — and  the  inhabi- 
tants are  so  accustomed  to  artists  that  there  was 
no  difficulty  in  getting  models  if  one  required  them. 

I remember  also  a notable  feature  of  the  place 
was  that  one  could  paint  anywhere,  even  in  the 
middle  of  the  main  street,  without  attracting  any 
attention — even  the  children  had  lost  all  interest 
in  so  everyday  an  occurrence  as  a man  seated 
under  an  umbrella  in  the  broiling  sun  with  a can- 
vas before  him.  Would  that  it  had  been  likewise 
with  the  flies,  for  their  interest  in  one’s  work  never 
flagged. 

Dejeuner  was  at  midday,  and  by  that  time  the 
invigorating  air  of  the  forest  had  sufficiently 
sharpened  one’s  appetite  to  enable  anyone  to  do 
ample  justice  to  the  simple  but  wholesome  meal 
we  all  sat  down  to.  If  I remember  rightly  we 
were  charged  six  francs  a day,  which  included  our 
morning  coffee  and  rolls  and  butter,  table  d’hote 
lunch,  and  dinner — including  vin  a discretion.  The 
food  was  really  very  good,  and  there  was  plenty 
of  it ; but  the  wine — even  now  it  gives  me  a pecu- 
liar sensation  in  the  jaws  when  I recall  it.  Not 
that  it  was  bad — it  was  worse ; but  at  the  same 

174 


“full  of  his  own  conceit.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

time  not  at  all  harmful.  It  was  a petit  vin  du  pays 
— very  new,  and  like  drinking  vinegar.  Till  one 
got  used  to  it  the  results  were  somewhat  unpleasant 
for  several  days ; after  one  got  accustomed  to  it 
one  could  drink  with  impunity.  They  did  not 
stint  you  with  it  at  meal  times,  and  you  could  have 
quarts  of  it  if  you  were  thirsty  enough ; but  at  any 
other  time  they  charged  four  sous  for  a small  gk. :s, 
a rather  curious  anomaly. 

The  people  staying  in  the  hotel  were  a curious, 
mixed-looking  crowd,  and  one  noticed  this  more 
particularly  at  lunch  and  dinner,  as  we  all  sat  at 
one  long  table.  There  were  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions— from  the  well-to-do  French  or  English  or 
American  artist  down  to  the  young  etudiant  full  of 
his  own  conceit.  Of  ladies  there  were  generally  a 
fair  sprinkling,  but  as  they  were  always  attached 
and  usually  appeared  to  be  in  the  various  stages 
of  honeymoon  existence,  they  didn’t  offer  much 
attraction  to  the  lonely  bachelor  who  was  forced  to 
be  content  with  looking  on.  Still,  it  was  usually 
a cheery  gathering,  as  everyone  soon  got  to  know 
everyone  else,  and  in  the  evening  after  dinner 
we  managed  to  have  some  very  amusing  times ; in 
the  billiard-room  especially,  where  we  used  to  play 
what  was  known  as  le  jeu  au  bouchon.”  A cork 
was  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  the  game 
consisted  in  making  as  many  cannons  as  possible 
without  knocking  it  over.  Every  time  it  was  hit 
the  player  had  to  place  a sou  on  it — and  the  winner 

175 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

took  the  lot.  All  the  ladies  staying  in  the  hotel, 
and  many  of  the  villagers,  used  to  join  in,  as  there 
was  no  limit  to  the  number  of  players.  Sunday 
evenings  were  especially  lively,  and  the  room 
would  be  crowded ; so  if  one  was  at  all  adept  at 
the  game  one  had  a most  appreciative  audience. 
It  was  Bohemia  in  the  country,  and  it  did  not  lose 
by  the  change  of  scene  ; the  more  especially  as  one 
got  to  bed  early  and  got  up  early  also. 

My  friend,  De  Penne,  was  as  good  as  his  word, 
and  introduced  me  to  everybody  in  the  place  worth 
knowing ; so  I felt  I had  struck  a pleasant  spot  for 
work,  and  decided  to  put  in  a few  weeks  there. 
De  Penne  himself  was  quite  a character — besides 
being  a very  distinguished  and  successful  painter. 
Even  down  in  this  secluded  village  he  retained 
the  appearance  of  a boulevardier  and  vieux 
marcheur,  and  was  quite  the  smartest-looking  man 
for  miles  round ; perhaps  it  was  because  he  always 
painted  hunting  subjects  and  dogs  that  he  had  the 
look  of  a genial  sportsman  rather  than  an  artist. 

Although  he  lived  en  gar9on  in  the  village,  he 
was  very  much  the  contrary  in  reality,  as  he  had 
a mistress  in  Paris  with  whom  he  had  lived  on 
terms  of  the  utmost  comradeship,  if  one  may  use 
the  words,  for  some  years.  I had  often  met  her. 
She  was  a very  charming  and  handsome  woman — 
one  of  the  habitudes  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Rochefou- 
cauld. She  used  to  come  down  to  Marlotte 
and  stay  at  his  house  for  weeks  at  a time  as  his 

176 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

ward,  a feeble  subterfuge  which  deceived  no  one 
but  himselb  Eventually  they  got  married;  not 
from  any  compunction  on  his  part,  but  simply,  as 
he  put  it,  because  she  was  continually  worrying 
him  to  do  it — for  then,  as  she  explained,  she  could 
receive  her  friends,  who  would  not  visit  her  unless 
she  was  married.  As  most  of  the  “ friends  ” had 
been  originally  the  maitresses  of  their  husbands, 
it  seemed  somewhat  exaggerated — the  aloofness; 
but,  as  I have  already  remarked,  there  is  no  more 
strict  a moralist  than  an  ex-cocotte — as  is  well 
known. 

At  last,  therefore,  he  gave  in,  and  they  got 
married ; and  when  they  returned  to  their  flat  from 
the  church  after  the  ceremony  I am  told  that  the 
concierge,  who  had  known  them  for  years,  came 
out  and  congratulated  them;  but  added,  Je  ne 
vous  souhaiterai  pas  le  bonheur  car  vous  I’avez 
deja” — which  was  quite  true,  for  she  was  really  a 
good  sort  and  they  had  been  very  happy  together. 

His  house  and  atelier,  as  became  a prosperous 
man,  were  also  very  characteristic.  I remember, 
in  particular,  his  bedroom  was  designed  and 
furnished  in  the  period  of  Henry  IV. — with  bed  in 
alcove,  rush  mattress  on  the  brick  floor,  huge  tiled 
hearth,  and  peculiar  old  lamp ; two  huge  boar 
hounds  used  always  to  sleep  alongside  his  bed, 
and  the  effect  of  this  old-world  chamber  when  one 
first  saw  it  was  most  impressive.  There  was  another 
well-known  painter  also  living  at  Marlotte — 

177  M 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Ciceri,  a very  old  man  whose  work  was  also 
much  in  demand  at  that  time  amongst  the  Paris 
marchands  de  tableaux. 

He  was  a tiny  little  man  and  his  physique  quite 
out  of  proportion  to  his  reputation  at  the  time. 
A curious  characteristic  of  his,  so  it  was  said, 
was  his  conviction  that  he  thoroughly  understood 
women  and  how  to  manage  them — and  as  he  had 
been  married  three  times  there  would  perhaps 
have  been  some  strength  in  his  assertion  had  it 
not  been  for  an  amusing  incident  that  had  hap- 
pened shortly  before  I arrived  in  Marlotte.  His 
femme  en  troisieme  noces  was  a big  brawny 
female  quite  twice  his  weight.  To  the  surprise 
of  the  habitues  of  the  billiard-room  of  the  hotel, 
old  Ciceri  had  not  put  in  his  usual  appearance  for 
a couple  of  days ; so  someone  was  delegated  to  go 
to  his  house  to  ascertain  if  illness  was  the  cause 
of  his  absence.  He  was  shown  into  the  atelier 
and  found  the  old  man  hard  at  work,  but  with 
his  face  disfigured  by  a couple  of  bad  black  eyes. 
The  visitor  commiserated  with  him  on  his  mis- 
fortune, and  eventually  asked  how  it  had  come 
about ; whereat  Ciceri  began  to  explain  with  much 
volubility  that  he  had  been  moving  some  pictures 
and  had  struck  his  head  against  the  corner  of  the 
armoire,  and  was  proceeding  to  give  further  details 
when  a door  leading  into  an  adjoining  room  opened 
slowly  and  a muscular  arm  and  clenched  fist  were 
thrust  forth — whilst  at  the  same  time  a strident 

178 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

female  voice  vociferated,  “ Le  voila  le  coin  de 
Tarmoire/’ 

Talking  of  old  men  reminds  me  of  another  rather 
funny  story  they  used  to  tell  about  a certain  very 
distinguished  painter  in  Marlotte.  I will  not  give 
his  name  as  he  is  still  alive.  He  was  then  about 
seventy-two  years  of  age,  but  still  fancied  himself 
with  the  ladies.  One  night  after  dinner  with  two 
of  his  bachelor  friends  he  said  to  them,  “ Come 
round  and  see  my  petite  amie,  she’ll  be  delighted.” 
When  they  got  to  the  house  there  was  a light  in 
the  window.  “ What  a nuisance ! ” he  exclaimed. 
“We  shan’t  be  able  to  go  in;  I quite  forgot  it’s 
her  old  man’s  day!  ” 

The  first  week  of  my  stay  in  Marlotte  was  quite 
uneventful.  The  days  passed  by  with  nothing  to 
specially  mark  one  from  another.  One  got  into 
a methodical  way  of  living : working  all  the  morn- 
ing— dejeuner,  cafe,  and  a smoke  in  the  garden 
— then  perhaps,  if  it  was  too  hot  to  go  out  immedi- 
ately afterwards,  a siesta  under  the  trees  for  an 
hour — then  work  again  till  dinner.  After  dinner 
we  would  perhaps  stroll  as  far  as  the  railway 
bridge  at  Montigny  and  set  one’s  watch  by  the 
express  which  passed  at  nine  o’clock.  It  was 
a very  tranquil  existence  indeed,  and  suited  me 
after  the  strenuous  life  in  Paris.  Then  two  inci- 
dents occurred  which  broke  the  monotony.  I 
will  relate  them  in  the  order  in  which  they 
happened. 


179 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

One  day  when  I got  back  for  lunch  I saw  that 
there  was  a convert  laid  for  a new-comer  at  the 
table  d’hote,  and  next  to  me.  Who  could  it  be,  I 
wondered.^  Some  artist  doubtless.  Lunch  pro- 
ceeded, and  just  as  we  were  Half-way  through,  a 
beautiful  young  woman  is  the  daintiest  of  summer 
attire  entered  and  took  the  vacant  seat.  All  eyes 
were  immediately  focused  on  her,  for  she  was 
indeed  a radiant  vision  amongst  all  these  unkempt 
men  and  dowdy  females.  There  had  not  been 
anything  so  attractive  in  Marlotte  for  many  a long 
day.  She  brought  an  aroma  of  chic  Paris  into 
the  room.  The  unattached  painters  commenced 
to  twirl  their  moustaches  and  smooth  their  hair,  and 
I mentally  congratulated  myself  on  having  shaved 
that  morning.  Her  neighbours  on  the  other  side 
were  a grey-bearded  artist  and  his  wife,  who  wore 
spectacles — very  uninteresting  persons  who  seldom 
spoke  to  anyone  ; so  it  immediately  flashed  through 
my  mind  that,  at  any  rate,  if  there  was  a chance 
of  an  “ aventure  ” I could  not  be  better  placed. 

Her  advent  was  as  a signal  for  a silence  of 
some  moments ; the  women  stared  at  her  as  only 
women  can  when  they  want  to  be  rude.  The  men 
couldn’t  take  their  eyes  off  her.  As  she  was  seated 
next  to  me,  I could  not  very  well  turn  round  with- 
out being  ill-mannered ; I could  only  give  an 
occasional  glance  in  her  direction — but  I noticed 
she  had  exquisite  hands,  and  that  she  had  wavy 
red  hair  and  the  loveliest  little  nose  imaginable. 

i8o 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Although  she  must  have  been  aware  of  the  atten- 
tion she  attracted,  she  apparently  accepted  it  as 
homage  she  was  but  accustomed  to,  and  her 
demeanour  was  quite  calm  and  unruffled. 

The  meal  proceeded  as  usual,  and  I was 
wondering  whether,  without  appearing  unduly 
presumptuous,  I might  venture  to  make  some 
commonplace  remark  to  her — for  there  was  no 
formality  about  introduction  at  our  table  d’hote, 
everyone  spoke  to  everyone  else  if  they  felt 
inclined  to.  After  a little  while,  whilst  I was 
trying  to  think  of  something  more  original  than 
the  time-worn  subject  of  the  weather  to  start  a con- 
versation on,  I heard  her  ask  the  maidservant,  in 
a delightfully  musical  and  Parisian  voice,  if  there 
was  any  ice  in  the  hotel — about  the  last  thing  one 
would  have  expected  to  find  in  Marlotte.  Of 
course  they  had  not  any,  and  this  gave  me  my 
opening — although  it  was  only  on  the  subject  of 
the  weather  after  all;  but  it  certainly  was  excep- 
tionally torrid  that  summer,  and  everyone  was 
talking  about  it. 

To  my  delight  she  was  not  in  the  least  averse 
to  entering  into  a conversation ; she  seemed  rather 
to  welcome  it,  I thought,  and  in  a very  short  time 
we  were  chatting  away  on  all  the  subjects  of 
interest  in  the  neighbourhood — the  forest,  the 
scenery,  the  village,  the  artists  living  in  it,  and  so 
on ; and  after  lunch  we  went  and  sat  outside  and 
had  coffee  together,  and  I fetched  a pochade  I had 

i8i 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

made  that  morning  to  show  her.  My  work  seemed 
to  interest  her,  and  she  wanted  to  know  all  about 
myself.  Then  we  started  talking  about  Paris ; 
but  the  Bohemian  world  was  not  hers — for  I soon 
discovered  she  was  quite  ignorant  of  its  curious 
ways.  I felt  I wanted  to  ask  her  about  herself, 
and  why  she  was  in  this  out-of-the-way  place 
alone ; but  there  was  a certain  reserve  in  her 
manner  which  rather  intimidated  me.  She  was 
so  different  to  any  other  woman  I had  hitherto 
met. 

We  spent  an  hour  very  pleasantly,  and  then  she 
rose  and  said  she  must  be  going  as  she  had  friends 
in  the  neighbourhood  to  visit.  By  this  time  I had 
already  the  deep  conviction  that  with  her  as  a com- 
panion life  for  a summer  at  Marlotte,  or  all  the 
year  round,  would  indeed  be  worth  living ; but 
I had  the  intuition  to  give  no  utterance  to  my 
thoughts.  So  beautiful  a woman  must,  I realised, 
be  accustomed  to  listening  to  such  compliments ; 
so  anything  I might  say  on  that  subject  would  only 
sound  banal.  I determined  to  stifle  my  feelings 
and  try  and  be  original — and  I believe  that  for 
once  I did  the  right  thing.  “ Au  revoir,”  she  said 
as  she  left  me. 

She  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  that  evening 
at  dinner,  and  I found  myself  aimlessly  wander- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  hotel  afterwards  in  the  hope 
of  catching  a glimpse  of  her,  but  in  vain.  “ La 
dame  qui  est  arrivee  ce  matin.  Monsieur?”  said 

182 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

the  bonne  in  answer  to  my  query.  “ Elle  n’est 
pas  rentree  depuis  quelle  est  sortie  cet  apres-midi.’’ 

The  following  morning  I was  up  betimes,  but 
after  having  my  coffee  I still  found  myself  uncon- 
sciously loitering  about  the  place  instead  of  getting 
off  into  the  forest  as  usual.  It  was  a lovely  morn- 
ing— just  one  of  those  days  when  one  feels  glad 
to  be  alive  and  well ; so  I had  put  on  white  flannel 
trousers  and  a collar  and  tie  to  live  up  to  it,  which 
was  rather  an  exceptional  occurrence  at  Marlotte, 
where  we  were  not  as  I said  in  the  habit  of  spend- 
ing much  time  or  thought  over  our  appearance. 

As  I stood  at  the  door  irresolute  as  to  whether 
I ought  not  to  get  off  to  my  work,  De  Penne  came 
along  with  his  dogs. 

“ What,  are  you  leaving  us  ? ” he  said. 

“ No,  why  do  you  ask?  ” I replied. 

“ Because  you  look  so  smart  this  morning,”  he 
said  with  a laugh. 

“ I don’t  see  anything  very  extraordinary  in 
making  myself  look  clean  and  tidy  occasionally 
even  in  this  outlandish  place,”  I answered  some- 
what sharply,  for  I was  hoping  She  would  not 
come  out  whilst  he  was  there ; somehow,  much 
as  I liked  him,  I felt  that  his  casual  Montmartre 
manner  with  women  would  be  quite  out  of  place  in 
this  instance.  Suddenly,  as  we  were  talking,  he 
exclaimed,  “ Tiens  mais,  qui  est  cette  dame  qui 
vient  par  ici  ? ” 

I looked  round  and  beheld  Her.  She  looked 
183 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

even  more  beautiful  than  on  the  previous  day,  as 
she  came  down  the  street  in  the  brilliant  morning 
sunshine.  She  was  all  in  white — white  dress, 
white  shoes,  white  parasol ; and  as  she  was  wearing 
no  hat  the  effect  of  her  gorgeous  hair  made  a 
wonderful  note  of  colour. 

“ Excuse  me,  old  fellow,”  I said  hastily.  “ It’s 
a friend  of  mine,”  and  I hurried  away  towards  her, 
without  giving  him  time  to  reply.  I was  conceited 
enough  to  fancy  that  she  seemed  just  a little  bit 
pleased  to  meet  me  again.  I blurted  out  a com- 
pliment in  spite  of  my  resolve  to  be  original ; but 
she  looked  so  charming  I could  not  resist  it — 
besides  which  I really  felt  what  I said.  “ You 
must  let  me  paint  you  in  that  dress,”  I continued 
impetuously,  “ you  look  simply  lovely  in  it.” 

“ One  of  these  days,  perhaps,”  she  replied  with  a 
laugh.  “ Though  I’m  afraid  I shouldn’t  make  a 
very  patient  sitter.” 

“ Oh,  I think  you  would,  since  you  have  the 
energy  to  get  up  and  go  out  so  early.” 

“ And  you  ? ” she  said,  turning  the  conversation 
adroitly  from  herself.  “ How  is  it  you  are  still  in 
the  village  and  not  away  working  at  your  picture  ? ” 
“Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I had  an  idle  fit 
on  me  this  morning,”  I replied,  not  wishing  to  let 
her  know  that  to  see  her  was  the  sole  reason  for 
my  not  being  at  work. 

“ It  can’t  be  helped — I shall  be  a great  artist  a 
day  later  I suppose,”  I added  with  one  of  my 

184 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

feeble  attempts  at  wit — which  however  appeared 
to  amuse  her. 

“ Well,  you  are  lucky  to  be  able  to  do  as  you 
please.  I wish  I could,  for  nothing  would  suit 
me  better  than  to  stroll  about  this  lovely  weather ; 
but  unfortunately  I have  some  letters  to  write  and 
must  get  them  off  this  morning  or  I shall  miss 
the  mail.” 

“ Shall  we  meet  at  lunch  ? ” I ventured  to  ask 
as  she  turned  to  go  into  the  hotel. 

“Yes,  I think  so,”  she  replied,  with  a smile  that 
left  me  more  smitten  than  ever. 

If  the  air  of  France  inspires  romance  then  that 
of  Marlotte  must  be  more  particularly  potent.  We 
met  every  day  after  this,  and  our  acquaintance 
rapidly  developed  into  friendship ; and  then — but 
why  tell  more — let  it  suffice  to  mention  that  the 
Gorge  aux  Loups  will  always  be  associated  in  my 
memory  with  love-making  rather  than  with  painting. 
Although  I really  did  sketch  her,  in  the  intervals ; 
but  the  result  did  not  satisfy  me  at  all,  and  I felt 
disgusted  at  my  poor  efforts  to  reproduce  her  as  she 
really  appeared  to  me.  What,  however,  impressed 
the  whole  delightful  episode  more  particularly"  on 
my  memory  that  even  now  after  many  years  I can 
still  recall  every  incident  connected  with  it — was 
the  mystery  surrounding  it.  Curious  as  it  may 
seem,  I never  got  to  know  her  real  name — nor 
even  who  were  her  friends  in  the  village.  She 
had  made  it  a sort  of  tacit  condition  of  our  amitie 

185 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

that  I should  not  attempt  to  find  out  who  she  was 
or  anything  about  her.  And  I was  too  happy  in 
the  feeling  that  I had  all  her  love  to  desire  to  know 
anything  more  than  she  cared  to  tell  me. 

‘‘  My  life  is  full  of  sorrow  and  unhappiness,” 
she  remarked  suddenly,  in  a strained  tone,  to 
me  one  afternoon  whilst  we  were  sitting  lovingly 
together  in  a secluded  nook  of  the  forest  a few 
weeks  later. 

“ Why  do  you  say  that  just  at  this  moment, 
dearest  ? ” I asked,  with  a presentiment  that  I was 
about  to  receive  bad  tidings. 

“ Because  I may  have  to  go  away  at  any  moment 
now.  I hate  to  have  to  tell  you,  mon  cheri,  but 
I had  to  sooner  or  later — that  our  amour  must  end 
when 'I  leave  Marlotte.” 

“ End  when  you  leave  Marlotte ! ” I ejaculated ; 
“ but  why — shall  we  not  meet  in  Paris.^  ” 

“No,  it  cannot  be,”  she  replied  with  emotion, 
and  nestling  her  head  against  my  shoulder  and 
placing  her  arm  around  my  neck.  “ And  I want 
to  ask  you  to  do  something  very,  very  serious  for 
me — I want  you  to  give  me  your  promise  that  if 
ever  we  meet  again  anywhere  you  will  not  recog- 
nise me;  from  the  moment  I leave  Marlotte  you 
will  forget  we  ever  knew  each  other.” 

I remember  as  though  it  were  yesterday  how  I 
sat  in  silence  for  some  moments — I felt  as  though 
stunned.  Everything  suddenly  seemed  changed 
around  me ; it  was  as  if  a big  void  was  before  me 

1 86 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

— that  something  was  going  out  of  my  life.  She 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

“ You  will  do  this  for  my  sake,  won’t  you.^  ” she 
said  earnestly. 

In  a husky  voice  that  I recollect  sounded  as  if 
it  did  not  belong  to  me  I promised  to  do  what 
she  asked.  I had  no  other  alternative. 

She  drew  my  face  towards  her  and  kissed  me 
passionately — her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

“We  have  been  very  happy  together,  mon 
cheri  bien  aime  during  these  few  weeks ; and  who 
knows — perhaps  it  is  better  for  both  of  us,  we 
might  have  got  tired  of  each  other  if  our  love  could 
have  become  a liaison.” 

I uttered  a protest. 

“ Well,  perhaps  I should  have  got  tired  of  you,” 
she  continued,  attempting  to  laugh  through  her 
tears,  “ for  I’m  a very  fickle  person  and  want  a 
lot  of  humouring.” 

My  heart  was  too  full  for  words — so  all  I could 
do  was  to  clasp  her  tightly  to  me,  with  the  thought 
that  she  was  still  mine  for  a few  short  hours  longer. 

As  we  walked  back  to  the  village  I fancied  she 
seemed  to  try  and  be  even  more  tender  and  loving, 
as  though  to  soothe  the  blow  she  had  been  obliged 
to  inflict  on  me.  The  next  days  seemed  to  speed 
by  on  wings.  I never  remember  time  going  so 
quickly ; but  the  close  of  our  romance  was  near  at 
hand,  as  we  both  realised.  She  was  now  waiting 
for  a letter  or  wire  which  would  recall  her — it 

187 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

might  arrive  at  any  moment.  Never  shall  I forget 
those  last  hours  we  spent  together.  They  passed 
as  though  in  a dream.  It  was  one  long  ecstasy 
of  love.  And  then  the  end  came,  remorselessly  as 
Fate,  on  our  return  to  the  hotel  one  morning. 

“ II  y a une  depeche  pour  Madame.”  It  was 
the  finish  of  the  rhapsody. 

A day  after  I received  a tiny  little  note  with 
the  one  word  on  it — “ Adieu.”  It  had  been  posted 
at  the  railway  station  at  Montigny. 

A few  months  later  I had  driven  out  to  the  Bois 
one  Sunday  afternoon  with  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Thomas,  and  we  were  seated  at  the  Restaurant 
of  the  Cascade  watching  the  smart  crowd  arriving 
and  departing,  when  suddenly  Madame  Thomas 
remarked : “ What  a very  beautiful  woman  that  is ; 
I wonder  who  she  is.” 

I looked  round  and  saw  stepping  out  of  a dainty 
victoria  my  lovely  Inconnue  of  Marlotte.  She 
was  accompanied  by  a grey-haired  elderly  man 
old  enough  to  be  her  father,  but  who  was  probably 
her  husband.  They  had  to  pass  close  to  where 
we  were  seated.  Our  eyes  met.  I fancied  I saw 
her  give  a startled  movement;  but  faithful  to  my 
promise  I betrayed  not  the  faintest  sign  of  recog- 
nition. Her  cloak  lightly  brushed  my  arm  as  she 
passed,  and  I felt  a thrill  go  through  me.  That 
was  the  last  time  I ever  saw  her. 

One  evening  I was  sitting  at  the  cafe  reading  a 
paper  when  I overheard  the  following  conversation : 

i88 


“ as  TllOUCrU  IX  A DRKAM.  “ 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ I hear  that  Mademoiselle  de  is  getting 

married.’’ 

“ Married?  ” 

“ Yes,  and  to  a very  rich  old  man.” 

“ Fancy  that.  What  will  she  do  about  her  child, 
I wonder?  Does  her  future  husband  know  of  it?  ” 
“ Why  should  he  ? Ever  since  it  was  born  it 
has  been  en  nourrice  with  some  peasants  right 
away  down  in  the  country  somewhere,  and  even 
her  own  people  don’t  know  of  the  ‘encumbrance.’ 
The  curious  part  of  it.  I’m  told,  is  that  she  is 
quite  devoted  to  the  child,  and  every  year  manages 
to  go  down  and  spend  a few  weeks  where  it  is.” 

“ That  doesn’t  surprise  me,  because  she  was 
always  a real  good  sort.” 

I was  listening  without  attaching  much  import- 
ance to  the  conversation  when  the  thought  sud- 
denly struck  me — might  not  a similar  case  explain 
my  mystery  of  Marlotte? 


CHAPTER  XV 

Another  incident  at  Marlotte — The  American  artist — A 
caricature  after  dinner — A mysterious  departure — An  un- 
pleasant surprise  for  Marlotte — My  caricature  at  the 
Prefecture  de  Police — Lost  in  the  Palace  of  Fontainebleau — 
Exciting  adventure — Unpopularity — An  amusing  joke. 


The  Other  incident  which  happened  whilst  I was 
at  Marlotte  was  not  at  all  of  a romantic  character, 
but  it  was  so  out  of  the  common  that  it  quite  merits 
being  narrated  at  length. 

One  day  there  arrived  at  the  hotel  a peculiar- 
looking individual;  he  was  an  American  artist  he 
said,  and  as  he  spoke  with  a decided  twang,  and 
carried  a large  paint-box,  everyone  took  him  at 
his  word.  He  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and 
had  very  long  hair  and  an  exceptionally  big  droop- 
ing moustache,  which  gave  him  somewhat  the  look 
of  a human  walrus.  I will  not  give  his  name,  for 
reasons  which  will  be  obvious.  He  turned  out  to 
be  quite  a jovial  and  genial  sort  of  fellow,  and 
gradually  made  friends  with  everyone — including 
even  the  villagers,  with  whom  he  used  to  chat 
and  joke  in  his  execrable  French.  Altogether  he 
proved  an  acquisition  to  the  table  d’hote. 

190 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Curiously  enough,  as  was  remarked  afterwards, 
no  one  ever  saw  him  do  any  painting;  he  always 
carried  his  big  paint-box  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
and  from  that  it  was  naturally  inferred  that  he 
had  been  or  was  going  sketching,  but  of  his  work 
no  one  saw  anything.  As  he  was  an  exceptionally 
good  billiard  player  he  soon  ingratiated  himself 
with  the  habitues  of  the  room,  and  every  evening 
after  dinner,  and  sometimes  in  the  afternoon,  one 
saw  him  playing  and  usually  winning  their  sous. 
He  seemed  to  have  taken  a particular  fancy  to  De 
Penne  and  old  Ciceri,  and  this  was  reciprocated 
as  he  soon  was  invited  to  call  on  them,  and  became 
a regular  visitor  at  their  houses.  To  Madame 
Ciceri  in  particular  he  was  especially  attentive, 
and  used  to  constantly  send  her  bouquets  from  a 
florist  at  Montigny. 

One  evening  a few  of  us  were  in  the  salle  a 
manger  after  dinner  taking  our  coffee,  and  passing 
the  time  discussing  Art  and  what  not — chiefly  what 
not — when  it  occurred  to  me  to  make  a caricature 
of  the  American.  I had  already  done  many  whilst 
at  the  table,  and  used  to  be  considered  rather  good 
at  catching  likenesses  this  way.  He  somewhat 
strongly  objected  at  first,  but  he  was  eventually 
persuaded  to  let  me  do  it,  and  as  I happened  to 
be  in  the  humour  I managed  to  get  an  amusing 
but  at  the  same  time  striking  portrait  of  him. 
Everybody  roared  with  laughter  on  seeing  it,  and 
said  it  was  better  than  any  photograph  of  him 

191 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

could  be.  The  reason  I lay  stress  on  this  will  be 
seen. 

A few  days  later  we  noticed  that  he  did  not  turn 
up  at  lunch  or  dinner.  At  first  we  took  no  notice 
of  his  absence ; then  someone  asked  the  patron 
what  had  become  of  him — and  learned  that  he 
didn’t  know,  but  thought  he  must  have  gone  to 
Paris. 

A week  passed,  and  as  he  didn’t  return  his  room 
was  opened,  and  on  examining  his  portmanteau 
it  was  found  to  be  practically  empty.  He  had 
taken  everything  of  any  value  he  might  have  had 
with  him.  His  paint-box  which  he  left  behind  him 
contained  nothing  whatever,  not  even  a palette. 
All  this  would  not  have  mattered  much  had  he  not 
neglected  the  trifling  formality  of  paying  his  bill 
before  he  departed,  and  as  he  had  been  there 
several  weeks,  it  amounted  to  a fair  sum.  But  this 
was  not  all,  by  any  means ; for  it  then  transpired 
that  he  had  taken  with  him  several  small  pictures 
from  the  studios  of  his  friends  Ciceri  and  De  Penne 
— pictures  which  could  be  immediately  converted 
into  cash  at  any  marchand  de  tableaux  in  the  Rue 
Lafitte,  and  this  was  what  he  actually  did,  as  we 
afterwards  learned. 

The  crowning  blow  of  all,  however,  concerned 
Madame  Ciceri,  to  whom  he  had  been  sending  the 
handsome  bouquets — for  she  received  a bill  for 
them  from  the  florist  at  Montigny,  as  he  had  never 
received  a sou  from  the  American.  All  this  was 

192 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

a very  unpleasant  surprise  for  the  good  folk  at 
Marlotte.  The  police  were  put  on  his  track,  but 
with  no  result,  as  he  had  left  no  traces,  and  when  I 
left  the  case  appeared  to  have  been  practically  aban- 
doned ; but  it  was  not  so,  for  I had  only  been  back 
in  Paris  about  a week  when  one  day  a stranger — 
an  affable,  well-dressed  gentleman — called  on  me, 
and  handed  me  his  card,  on  which  was  his  name. 
He  was  an  Inspector  of  the  Surete.  He  came 
from  the  Prefecture  de  Police  to  ask  me  if  I would 
kindly  oblige  them  by  lending  them  for  a few  days 
the  caricature  which  they  had  been  informed  I had 
made  of  the  absconding  American.  Of  course  I 
could  not  refuse  ; and  in  due  course  it  was  returned 
to  me,  together  with  a photographic  reproduction 
which  had  been  made  from  it  with  Prefecture  de 
Police  stamped  on  it.  I have  it  still.  This  repro- 
duction I afterwards  learned  was  circulated  in  all 
of  the  police  stations  throughout  France,  and  the 
missing  Yankee  was  actually  traced  and  eventually 
caught  through  its  instrumentality.  He  got  a severe 
sentence  for  his  misdeeds.  I have  always  thought 
that  he  must  have  had  some  intuitive  feeling  of 
misgiving  when  he  so  strongly  objected  to  my  mak- 
ing the  caricature  of  him  that  evening  at  Marlotte. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  I had  one  of  the 
most  curious  adventures  of  my  life."^  It  happened 


* This  adventure  forms  the  basis  of  a story  I wrote  for  the  Wide 
World  Magazine,  and  I am  relating  it  briefly  here  by  courteous 
permission  of  the  Editor. 


193 


N 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

in  Fontainebleau,  where  I had  gone  to  spend  a 
week,  having  obtained  permission  to  sketch  in  the 
Palace.  The  romantic  always  had  a great  attrac- 
tion for  me,  and  I loved  to  wander  through  the  old 
building  by  myself,  and  spent  hours,  sketch-book 
in  hand,  exploring  the  place,  as  my  permit  allowed 
me  to  go  where  I chose.  One  wet  afternoon  when 
there  were  hardly  any  visitors  about  I was  strolling 
through  one  of  the  rooms  when  I noticed  something 
peculiar  in  a panel  of  the  wainscoting.  On  nearei 
examination  I discovered  it  was  a sort  of  metal 
catch  or  lock,  and  that  the  panel  itself  was  a secret 
door.  My  curiosity  was  not  unnaturally  aroused. 
I tried  it  and  found  that  it  opened  inward,  and  led 
into  a dark,  narrow  corridor.  The  spirit  of  adven- 
ture was  strong  within  me  and  I did  not  hesitate. 
Making  sure  I was  unobserved,  I went  in  and  pulled 
the  panel  to  after  me.  I then  discovered  that  the 
passage  led  to  a large  private  suite  of  rooms  which 
had  evidently  not  been  visited  for  years,  judging 
from  the  thick  coating  of  dust  and  the  cobwebs 
everywhere. 

On  all  sides  were  magnificent  old  furniture  and 
faded  hangings,  which  gave  an  uncanny,  ghostly 
look  to  the  place,  which  was  heightened  by  the  old- 
world  odour  which  pervaded  the  rooms.  Here 
indeed  was  an  adventure,  thought  I,  as  I made  my 
way  with  ecstasy  through  the  quaint  apartments. 
Although  not  large,  there  seemed  no  end  to  the 
number  of  rooms  which  led  from  one  to  another, 

194 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

interminably  as  it  seemed — with  all  manner  of 
unexpected  twists  and  turns ; whilst  now  and  again 
some  dark  corridor  indicated  still  further  surprises. 

But  I had  no  time  that  afternoon  to  pursue  my 
explorations  as  it  was  getting  near  dusk,  and  the 
time  for  closing  the  Palace,  so  I began  to  retrace  my 
steps.  I forgot  to  mention  that  as  I came  along 
I had  noticed  a very  beautiful  old  clock  of  the 
eight-day  description.  I again  stopped  to  admire 
it,  and  then  passed  on.  Shortly  after  I was  some- 
what surprised  to  see  another  clock  of  precisely 
the  same  design ; strange,  I thought,  as  I went  by 
it  that  there  should  be  two  similar.  A little  farther, 
to  my  amazement,  I came  up  to  yet  another  exactly 
like  the  two  previous  ones ; then  it  suddenly 
dawned  on  me  that  I had  been  walking  in  a circle, 
that  there  was  only  one  clock  after  all,  and  that  I 
had  lost  my  way. 

I stood  aghast.  In  an  instant  it  flashed 
through  my  mind  that  unless  I could  find 
my  way  back  to  the  secret  door  the  chances  of 
anyone  coming  to  my  rescue  were  almost  nil,  for 
I was  in  a part  of  the  vast  building  which  was  prob- 
ably almost  unknown.  So  I set  about  attempting 
to  retrace  my  footsteps  by  means  of  the  furniture 
and  other  objects  that  had  attracted  me  as  I had 
come  along;  but  to  no  purpose,  as  I soon  dis- 
covered. I could  not  remember  the  way  back.  All 
the  windows  looked  out  on  gardens  which  were 
deserted.  It  was  getting  dark,  and  the  Palace 

195 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

was  now  closed,  so  I could  expect  no  help  from 
inside,  unless  the  attendant  had  noticed  I had  not 
left  the  building,  and  was  looking  for  me. 

With  this  hope  in  my  mind  I started  walking 
about  rapidly,  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  my  voice 
“ Au  secours.”  The  words  echoed  and  re-echoed 
through  the  rooms  with  ghostly  effect,  but  there  was 
no  response.  I now  began  to  get  seriously  alarmed ; 
and  had  visions  of  a slow  death  by  starvation. 
Time  was  passing,  and  it  would  soon  be  night, 
so  I sat  down  on  a bed  to  consider  my  position 
calmly,  as  I felt  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  losing 
my  head.  How  long  I sat  there  I don’t  remember, 
as  I must  have  dozed  off  I fancy ; then  I discovered 
it  was  now  quite  dark.  Suddenly  I heard  footsteps 
on  the  gravelled  walk  outside,  and  the  reflection  of 
a light.  Rushing  to  the  nearest  window  I dis- 
covered, to  my  intense  relief,  that  it  was  a watch- 
man passing  with  a lantern.  I frantically,  by 
lighting  a match  and  tapping  vigorously,  managed 
to  attract  his  attention.  The  look  of  surprise  on 
his  face  as  he  turned  in  my  direction  and  discovered 
me  may  be  imagined. 

I bawled  out  that  I was  shut  in,  and  how  I’d  got 
where  I was,  and  after  a few  minutes  he  understood 
me.  Then  calling  out  to  me  to  remain  where  I 
was  he  hurried  off.  The  time  now  seemed  inter- 
minable; but  at  length  I heard,  to  my  joy, 
footsteps  resounding  through  the  apartments,  and 
a little  group  of  officials  appeared.  I was  saved. 

196 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

It  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  there  was  an  inquiry 
the  following  day,  but  my  explanation  satisfied  the 
authorities — for  my  “ permit  ” did  not  state  that  I 
was  not  allowed  to  visit  this  particular  portion  of 
the  Palace. 

Some  years  afterwards  I was  going  through  the 
building  with  a friend  to  whom  I had  told  my 
adventure,  and  wished  to  show  him  the  secret 
panel ; but  it  had  been  masked  by  a big  piece  of 
furniture. 

A very  amusing  joke  was  played  on  an  artist 
in  a cafe  in  Fontainebleau  one  afternoon  whilst  I 
was  there.  The  cafe  was  used  as  a sort  of  club 
by  its  habitues  who  used  to  meet  there  every  day  for 
an  aperitif,  and  of  an  evening  for  billiards.  It  was 
usually  crowded  about  five  o’clock  in  the  afternoon. 
The  artist  in  question,  whom  I will  call  Durand — 
in  case  he  ever  reads  this — lived  a little  way  out 
of  the  town,  but  seldom  missed  turning  up  at  the 
“ cercle,”  as  the  cafe  was  termed,  at  least  once  a 
day.  He  had  somehow  managed  to  make  himself 
extremely  unpopular  with  the  other  habitues,  as 
he  was  always  putting  on  side  ” — a very  bad 

offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  simple  folks  of  a pro- 
vincial town. 

This  had  been  resented  for  some  time  past,  and 
attempts  had  been  made  to  let  him  know  that  he 
was  not  accepted  at  his  own  valuation,  and  was  not 
wanted  in  the  cafe ; but  to  no  effect,  as  he  was  too 
wrapped  up  in  his  own  conceit. 

197 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

He  was  a big,  pompous  man,  and  his  principal 
weakness  was  his  belief  in  his  ability  to  do  any- 
thing better  than  anyone  else  in  the  “ cercle/’ 
On  all  games  or  sport  he  posed  as  an  authority. 
Billiards  were  his  especial  fancy — as  he  really 
could  play  a good  game ; and  he  was  always  wait- 
ing an  opportunity  to  inveigle  some  unsuspecting 
new-comer  into  a match,  have  a bet  on,  and  win  his 
money;  which  was  not  considered  sportsman-like 
at  all,  as  may  be  imagined. 

One  day  the  opportunity  presented  itself  to  pay 
him  out.  An  old  habitue  of  the  cafe,  who  had 
been  away  from  Fontainebleau  for  some  months, 
came  back  for  a few  days.  He  was  one  of  the  best 
amateur  billiard  players  in  France,  had  won  the 
championship,  and  had  often  beaten  professionals. 
He  was  told  about  all  the  goings-on  of  the  unpopu- 
lar painter,  and  agreed  to  join  in  a plot  to  “ rag  ” 
him  thoroughly.  So  it  was  arranged  that  the 
following  afternoon  he  should  be  in  the  cafe,  and 
the  artist  should  be  led  on  gradually  and  drawn 
into  a match  with  him  there  and  then  for  a 
special  bet. 

The  next  day  the  place  was  crowded,  as  news 
of  what  was  going  to  happen  got  about.  Durand 
came  in  as  usual,  and  found  himself  treated  with 
unusual  friendship — invited  to  drink  with  men  who 
seldom  took  any  notice  of  him,  and  so  on.  This, 
of  course,  only  helped  to  still  further  elate  him  in 
his  own  estimation ; he  evidently  thought  he  was 

198 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

a very  popular  fellow  indeed,  and  his  strident  voice 
could  be  heard  all  over  the  cafe  as  he  laid  down 
the  law  on  every  subject  he  was  drawn  in  to 
discuss. 

Amongst  those  sitting  round  was  the  amateur 
billiard  champion,  who  was  a stranger  to  him. 
Very  skilfully  the  conversation  was  turned  on 
to  billiards — and  a mock  discussion  was  started 
by  two  men,  and  Durand  was  invited  to  decide 
the  question,  which  of  course  he  did.  And  then,  one 
thing  leading  to  another,  someone  mentioned  that 
it  was  well  known  that  he,  the  artist,  was  the  best 
billiard  player  they  had  ever  had  in  Fontainebleau. 
Whereat  he  preened  himself,  and  admitted  that  this 
was  so ; and  that  he  was  prepared  to  take  on  any- 
one in  the  district  for  anything  he  liked  to  name. 
At  which  there  were  loud  cheers.  Then  someone 
pretended  to  take  the  proposition  up  seriously,  and 
said  that  he  had  a man  he  would  back  against  the 
artist;  then  another  rejoined  with  his  choice,  but 
it  was  pointed  out  that  all  these  were  men  whose 
game  was  too  well  known  to  be  taken  seriously. 

Suddenly,  as  though  by  accident,  someone  said 
that  he’d  back  Duval  (a  fictitious  name  they’d  given 
the  champion)  to  take  up  the  challenge,  and  several 
men  pretended  to  agree  with  him ; then  followed  a 
heated  discussion  between  the  supposed  partisans 
of  Durand  and  those  of  Duval.  Who  was  Duval  ? 
What  had  he  ever  done  to  prove  himself  a billiard 
player  at  all — he  was  scarcely  known  in  the  town. 

199 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

However  his  backer  persisted  in  his  opinion  that 
he  could  easily  beat  the  other  man ; and  would 
advise  him  to  take  on  any  bet  that  was  made,  and 
would,  moreover,  back  him  himself  to  any  amount. 
Meanwhile  the  artist  was  being  egged  on  to  wait, 
and  he  could  win  anything  he  chose  to  name,  so 
certain  a thing  was  it ; the  mere  idea  of  this  com- 
paratively unknown  man  daring  to  play  against  him 
was  absurd.  At  last  they  advised  him  what  to  do, 
and  he  jumped  up  and  called  out. 

“ Assez — let’s  get  to  work ; what’s  the  bet — name 
your  figure,  Monsieur.” 

“ I don’t  play  for  money,”  replied  the  other,  with 
mock  humility. 

“ Play  him  for  his  trousers,”  someone  called  out 
to  the  artist.  It  will  teach  him  not  to  fancy 
himself  so  much  in  future.”  All  this  had  of  course 
been  planned. 

Everyone  crowded  round ; there  was  wild  talk- 
ing and  gesticulating  between  the  rival  partisans, 
and  in  the  end  it  was  settled  that  the  stake  was  to 
be  the  trousers  the  loser  was  wearing.  The  artist 
stroked  his  beard  with  glee,  and  called  out  to  his 
adversary  as  he  took  off  his  coat  to  start  playing, 
‘‘  And  don’t  make  any  mistake  about  it.  Monsieur. 
I shall  insist  on  your  handing  them  over  to  me 
here  in  the  cafe.”  So  certain  was  he  of  winning. 

Well,  as  had  also  been  arranged,  the  champion 
pretended  to  be  very  nervous,  and  missed  some 
very  easy  shots  at  the  commencement  of  the  game 

200 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

— and  the  excitement  was  intense  ; but  with  all  his 
bad  play  he  left  absolutely  nothing  each  time.  He 
didn’t  score  at  all,  but  Durand,  on  the  other  hand, 
made  no  headway  and  began  to  lose  his  temper ; 
he  was  unaccustomed  to  such  unusual  difficulty. 

Well,  this  went  on  for  a time  amidst  a buzz  of  dis- 
cussion after  each  stroke,  till  at  last,  after  missing 
what  looked  like  a very  easy  shot,  he  turned  to 
Duval  and  said  pompously,  as  he  chalked  his  cue : 
“ This  is  the  last  chance  I am  going  to  give  you, 
so  you  had  better  make  the  best  of  it.  I’m  going 
to  start  playing  seriously  now.”  But  try  all  he 
could,  he  could  not  get  ahead  of  his  adversary, 
who  won,  as  arranged,  by  apparently  a brilliant 
effort,  and  with  a splendid  break  of  eight,  if  I 
remember  right.  The  uproar  was  deafening,  and 
the  partisans  of  the  winner  carried  him  round  the 
room  in  triumph.  Now  came  the  moment  for 
settling  the  bet,  and  the  artist  tried  all  he  could 
to  avoid  it,  for  he  was  no  sportsman  at  heart.  He 
wanted  to  leave  the  cafe,  but  this  had  been  fore- 
seen, and  we  all  gathered  round  the  door,  thus 
making  exit  impossible.  Then  he  saw  that  he  had 
no  longer  any  partisans,  that  everyone  present 
was  against  him ; “ le  pari — le  pari,  enlevez  les 
culottes  ” was  shouted  on  all  sides.  In  vain  did 
he  protest  that  he  would  catch  cold — no  heed  was 
taken ; and  in  the  end,  to  avoid  having  them  taken 
off  by  force,  he  divested  himself  of  the  garment 
amidst  roars  of  laughter  and  jeers.  Then  they 

201 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

allowed  him  to  borrow  an  overcoat,  for  it  was  a 
bleak  day,  and  take  his  departure ; but  outside 
the  cafe  the  news  had  spread,  and  a crowd  had 
assembled  to  see  the  novel  spectacle  of  a big 
man  go  through  the  streets  in  a short  overcoat, 
and  with  no  trousers  on,  and  he  had  practically 
to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  whole  town  till  he  got 
back  to  his  lodgings.  An  hour  later  his  trousers 
were  returned  to  him  by  a messenger,  who  found 
him  packing  up  prior  to  taking  his  departure  from 
Fontainebleau.  He  had  realised  that  he  was  not 
so  popular  as  he  had  fondly  imagined. 


202 


CHAPTER  XVI 


A visit  to  Moret — Funny  adventure  on  way  to  station — A 
good-natured  Frenchman — Willing  hands — Arrival  at 
station — Amusement  of  bystanders — Lost  belongings — 
Incident  in  carriage — Disagreeable  passenger — No  smok- 
ing— A whistling  story — Another  smoking  story — The 
bully  and  the  bantam — A curious  military  incident  at  the 
Gare  St  Lazare — Moret  and  its  surroundings — Lolling  as 
a fine  art. 

My  visits  to  Fontainebleau  and  its  neighbourhood 
seemed  somehow  to  be  always  fraught  with  incident 
for  me.  Shortly  after  the  adventure  I have  just 
recounted,  I received  an  invitation  to  go  and 
spend  a few  days  with  a friend  of  mine  whose 
mother  had  an  estate  at  Moret,  a delightful  little 
village  quite  close  to  the  forest.  The  chance  of 
spending  a little  holiday  en  famille,  and  in  such 
picturesque  surroundings,  was  too  good  to  be 
refused,  so  I gladly  accepted,  and  arranged  to  go 
down  with  my  friend  one  afternoon.  When  I 
came  to  pack  my  bag  I discovered  that  it  was 
in  a very  defective  condition,  and  it  was  only 
after  a deal  of  coaxing  that  I got  it  to  close. 
However,  this  did  not  worry  me  much,  as  I knew 
I could  take  it  in  the  carriage  with  me.  Besides 

203 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

my  bag,  I took  my  paint-box,  easel,  and  a couple 
of  canvases,  as  of  course  I intended  to  do  some 
painting  whilst  I was  away. 

The  fact  of  all  this  would  scarcely  be  worth 
mentioning  were  it  not  for  a funny  adventure  that 
happened  on  the  way  to  the  station.  My  friend 
was  late  in  calling  for  me,  as  he  had  had  to  make 
several  purchases  for  his  mother;  so  he  had  quite 
a miscellaneous  collection  of  parcels  in  the  cab 
he  came  to  fetch  me  in.  The  Gare  de  Lyon  is 
quite  a distance  from  Montmartre,  and  we  had 
no  time  to  spare,  so  we  told  the  cocher  he  would 
have  something  extra  in  the  shape  of  a good  tip 
if  he  got  us  there  in  time  to  catch  our  train.  He  was 
game,  so  was  his  horse,  and  we  went  off  at  a pace 
that  would  have  got  him  run  in  for  furious  driving 
anywhere  else  but  in  Paris.  The  way  he  turned 
corners  and  dashed  in  and  out  of  the  traffic  would 
have  made  our  hair  stand  on  end,  had  it  not  been 
that  we  were  fully  occupied  in  preventing  the 
parcels  from  flying  out. 

We  had  got  well  on  the  way,  and  were  just 
congratulating  ourselves  that  we  were  safe  to 
reach  the  station  in  time,  when  suddenly  in  turn- 
ing a corner  the  fiacre  skidded,  and  with  a crash 
off  came  one  of  the  back  wheels,  and  over  we 
went.  We  were  both  pitched  out ; luckily  neither 
of  us  was  hurt,  but  all  our  baggage  was  in 
the  road — in  seemingly  inextricable  confusion.  I 
never  saw  such  a mess  of  things  in  my  life.  My 

204 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

unfortunate  bag  had  simply  burst,  and  shirts  and 
collars,  clothes  and  boots,  were  in  the  mud.  My 
paint-box  had  come  open,  and  had  shed  its 
contents  amongst  the  packages  belonging  to  my 
friend ; whilst  out  of  one  of  the  parcels  a syrupy 
stream  of  yellow  chartreuse  was  pouring  over  the 
wreckage.  My  canvases  had  been  transfixed 
by  the  easel. 

There  are  times  when  it  is  brought  home 
to  one  forcibly  that  language  is  inadequate 
to  express  thought,  and  this  was  one  of  these 
occasions.  My  friend  and  I dusted  ourselves 
down  and  surveyed  the  scene  of  desolation  with- 
out uttering  a word,  for  there  were  no  words  to 
cover  the  situation.  The  driver  stood  hat  in 
hand  scratching  his  head  helplessly,  and  ejacu- 
lating at  short  intervals  Nom  de  D , nom 

de  D ! ” 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it  a crowd 
had  collected,  and  gathered  round,  grinning 
at  our  plight,  for  no  doubt  it  was  very  funny 
to  anyone  not  personally  interested  in  it;  but 
to  us  it  meant  losing  our  train  as  well  as  hav- 
ing our  belongings  spoilt.  We  looked  round  in 
despair.  There  was  no  sign  of  another  convey- 
ance, for  the  accident  had  happened  in  a by-street. 
Then  suddenly  a big  man  appeared  on  the  scene 
and  seemed  to  grasp  the  situation  at  a glance. 
He  was  one  of  those  good-natured,  officious  sort 
of  individuals  who  must  have  a say  in  everything. 

2D5 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Going  to  catch  a train,  eh  ? Bad  luck  this, 
but  can’t  be  helped.  What  time  have  you  got 
to  be  at  the  station.^  Oh,  you’ve  got  time  still  if 
we  can  find  another  cab.” 

We  were  like  drowning  men  catching  at  a 
straw.  We  looked  at  our  watches.  “ But  how 
about  our  things  ? ” we  exclaimed. 

“ Oh,  we’ll  soon  put  them  together,”  and  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  words,  he  good-naturedly 
started  picking  up  our  belongings  and  stuffing 
them  quickly  into  the  broken  bag.  His  example 
was  contagious ; other  willing  hands  helped.  But 
if  it  was  difficult  to  pack  the  bag  quietly  at  my 
rooms,  it  may  be  imagined  what  it  was  like  trying 
to  do  it  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  everything 
in  hopeless  confusion.  Just  at  that  moment  a 
cart  came  along,  and  had  to  pull  up  as  we  were 
blocking  the  road.  The  driver  looked  on  with 
an  air  of  interest  at  our  frantic  endeavours.  Our 
newly  found  friend  called  out  to  him  with  an  air 
of  authority — as  if  he  knew  all  about  him,  “You 
are  going  towards  the  Gare  de  Lyon ; won’t  you 
give  these  two  artists  a lift.^  You  see  what’s 
happened,  and  they  will  miss  their  train  unless 
you  are  a bon  enfant,  as  you  look.” 

“ Certainly — ^with  pleasure,”  the  man  replied. 
“ Chuck  your  things  in.  How  much  have  you  got 
to  pay  me?  Nothing  of  course.  What  do  you 
take  me  for?  I’m  not  a cabman.  You’ll  sort  them 
out  afterwards.” 


206 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

The  people  who  were  helping  gave  up  attempting 
to  pack,  and  hastily  tied  up  everything  in  the  first 
thing  handy — in  shirts  or  anything  that  could  be 
made  up  in  a bundle.  What  wouldn’t  go  into  a 
bundle  went  into  the  cart  loose.  Then  we 
scrambled  in  ourselves,  and  off  we  went  full  gallop, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  hearty  cheers  from  the 
crowd,  whilst  the  big  man  yelled  “ Bonne  chance 
and  bon  voyage,  mes  amis.” 

We  got  to  the  station  and  found  we  had  missed 
the  fast  train  we  had  hoped  to  catch,  but  were 
just  in  time  for  the  last  one  of  the  day,  a slow  one 
which  would  get  us  to  our  destination  a couple  of 
hours  later.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  so  hastily 
thanking  the  driver  of  the  cart  for  his  kind  assist- 
ance, we  got  a couple  of  porters,  and,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  the  people  in  the  station,  between 
us  we  managed  to  carry  our  scattered  belongings 
to  the  train,  where  we  threw  them  into  the  first 
carriage  we  came  to,  and  which  happened  to  have 
only  one  occupant. 

We  were  so  thoroughly  excited  and  out  of 
breath  that  for  a few  minutes  after  the  train 
started  we  did  not  move.  Then  we  began 
putting  our  goods  and  chattels  together — and 
now  came  the  climax.  We  were  both  quite 
prepared  to  find  a lot  of  damage  done,  but  to  our 
dismay  we  discovered  that  no  end  of  things  were 
missing.  No  doubt  in  the  hurry  in  taking  them 
out  of  the  cart  they  had  got  overlooked,  or,  who 

207 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

knows,  perhaps  some  of  them  had  been  annexed 
as  souvenirs  by  the  crowd.  Anyhow,  as  far  as 
I was  concerned,  I had  come  off  worse  than  my 
friend,  as  I found  I had  lost  one  boot,  my  brush 
and  comb,  my  palette,  and  nearly  all  the  paints 
and  brushes  out  of  my  box,  amongst  other  items ; 
and  what  wasn’t  lost  was  covered  by  dirt  and 
sticky  with  yellow  chartreuse.  However,  it  was 
no  use  crying  over  it ; the  only  thing  was  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  in  a short  time  our  youthful 
spirits  returned,  and  we  were  laughing  over  the 
adventure.  But  more  was  to  follow ; it  was  to  be 
an  eventful  journey. 

I mentioned  there  was  only  one  other  occupant 
of  the  carriage — a sour-faced,  middle-aged  man, 
who  glared  on  us  when  we  made  our  uncere- 
monious entrance,  and  still  more  so  when  the 
porters  threw  our  scattered  belongings  in.  Well, 
after  regaining  our  composure  we  did  the  m^ost 
natural  thing  under  the  circumstances.  We  pulled 
out  our  pipes  and  started  to  smoke.  Suddenly 
there  was  a harsh  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the 
carriage.  “ Je  vous  defends  de  fumer.  This  is 
not  a smoking  compartment.” 

We  turned  round  in  astonishment,  as  it  is 
generally  understood  in  France  that,  unless  there 
are  ladies  in  the  carriage,  one  can  smoke,  pro- 
vided, of  course,  the  other  occupants  of  the 
carriage  don’t  object.  We  had  omitted  the  for- 
mality of  asking  our  fellow-traveller  his  permission. 

fo8 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

So  we  hastened  to  apologise,  and  trusted  he  would 
not  mind  us  continuing.  For  all  reply  he  gruffly 
retorted,  “ I forbid  you  to  smoke,  and  if  you  don’t 
leave  off  at  once  I shall  inform  the  guard  at  the 
first  stopping-place,  and  have  a proces  verbal 
drawn  up  against  you  both.” 

There  was  no  mistaking  it — he  intended  to  be 
nasty,  and  as  he  was  in  his  right,  we  had  no  alter- 
native but  to  give  in.  My  friend  and  I looked 
at  each  other,  and  sat  in  silence  for  some  minutes, 
for  it  was  a bit  of  a shock.  We  had  a long  jour- 
ney before  us  as  we  stopped  at  nearly  every 
station,  and  with  our  luggage  so  damaged,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  change  our  carriage  easily.  We 
were  both  inveterate  smokers,  so  the  prospect 
was  not  a pleasant  one.  I tried  to  think  of  a way 
to  cause  this  surly  individual  as  much  annoyance 
as  he  had  us.  Suddenly  a brilliant  idea  struck  me, 
and  without  telling  my  friend  what  I intended 
doing,  I asked  him  in  a loud  tone  of  voice  if  he 
had  heard  the  funny  story  of  the  stuttering  man 
who  was  cured  of  his  infirmity  by  whistling. 

“ No,”  said  he,  guessing  I was  up  to  some  mis- 
chief, “ let’s  hear  it.” 

The  story,  by  the  way,  which  is  a very  old  one, 
is  of  a man  who  tells  an  inquisitive  stranger,  who 
has  asked  him  why  he  speaks  so  curiously,  that 
he  once  stuttered  very  much,  but  had  been  cured 
by  a specialist,  who  had  advised  him,  whenever  he 
felt  he  was  going  to  stutter,  to  draw  in  a long 

209  o 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

breath  and  whistle.  He  stuttered  all  the  time  he 
was  saying  this,  and  finished  by  saying  in  explana- 
tion of  his  peculiar  way  of  speaking,  “ And  n-n-ow 
(loud  whistle)  Pm  com-com-plet-te-ly  (whistle) 
c-cured,  a-as  y-you  s-s-see  ” — louder  whistle  to 
finish  up  with.  Of  course  I prolonged  the  story 
inordinately,  and  every  time  I whistled  I noticed 
the  man,  who  was  reading,  look  round  and  squirm, 
but  there  is  no  rule  against  whistling  in  a railway 
carriage  in  France.  My  friend  at  once  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  joke,  and  insisted  on  my 
telling  it  several  times,  roared  with  laughter,  said 
it  was  the  best  joke  he  had  ever  heard,  and  then 
pretended  to  try  and  tell  it  himself,  with  many 
attempts  at  the  whistling  part  especially.  How 
long  we  should  have  kept  it  up  I don’t  know,  but 
at  last  our  neighbour  turned  sharply  towards  us 
and  exclaimed  abruptly : 

“ I prefer  your  smoking  to  your  whistling.” 

We  both  bowed  obsequiously,  but  we  said 
nothing.  I fancy  he  felt  like  laughing,  but 
managed  to  keep  his  countenance.  Then  we  again 
produced  our  pipes,  and  lit  up  and  smoked  to  our 
heart’s  content.  He  got  out  shortly  after,  and  we 
opened  the  door  for  him  with  a mock  deference, 
which  must  have  made  him  feel  mad,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

Smoking  in  carriages  not  labelled  “ fumeurs  ” is 
likely  to  lead  one  into  more  unpleasantness  in 
France  than  one  would  expect — considering  what 

210 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

inveterate  smokers  the  French  are;  and  I recollect 
one  occasion  when  it  wasn’t  our  fault  there  wasn’t 
a row.  A friend  and  I were  coming  back  from 
Saint  Germain  one  Sunday,  and  as  the  train  was 
crowded,  we  jumped  into  the  nearest  carriage.  It 
was  a first-class  compartment,  and  in  it  were  already 
three  passengers,  two  ladies  accompanied  by  a 
middle-aged  man.  He  was  one  of  those  big, 
heavy,  unpleasant  sort  of  fellows,  who  stretch  out 
their  legs,  and  want  to  occupy  two  seats.  We 
were  smoking  cigarettes,  and  had  jumped  m so 
hurriedly  that  we  had  not  noticed  we  were  getting 
into  a non-smoker. 

We  had  barely  sat  down  when  the  man  in  a 
loud,  blustering  tone  called  out  to  us,  “ You  won’t 
smoke  here.”  He  was  evidently  a bully,  and 
thought  he  saw  his  chance  of  showing  off.  Of 
course  we  neither  of  us  had  the  slightest  intention 
of  smoking  if  we  were  not  in  a smoking  carriage, 
and  he  had  but  to  inform  us  politely  that  such 
was  the  case,  instead  of  which  he  spoke  to  us  as 
he  would  have  to  dogs.  I felt  my  back  hair  rising, 
and  glanced  at  my  companion  to  see  how  he  had 
taken  it,  for  I knew  he  had  the  temper  of  a very 
devil,  and  it  took  very  little  to  rouse  it.  I shall 
never  forget  the  look  on  his  face.  He  was  a 
smallish  chap,  but  he  was  a rare  fighter,  as  I knew 
very  well,  and  had  a heart  like  a lion.  He  looked 
the  bully  straight  in  the  face,  and  said  in  a quiet 
voice,  but  which  absolutely  vibrated  with  passion : 

2II 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Is  it  to  me  you  are  addressing  yourself, 
Monsieur?  ” 

For  all  reply  the  man  in  an  indescribably  inso- 
lent tone  said,  Oui,  Monsieur,” 

‘‘  Bien,  Monsieur,”  said  my  friend,  “ nous  nous 
verrons  apres.”  Dropping  his  cigarette  on  the  floor 
he  crushed  it  with  his  foot.  He  then  sank  back, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  man  opposite — with  such 
a look  that  he  must  have  realised  that  it  was  only 
the  presence  of  the  two  ladies  that  saved  him  from 
having  to  fight  then  and  there.  This  continued 
for  some  minutes.  Then  the  man  began  to  fidget 
and  look  uncomfortable ; he  had  evidently  realised 
that  he  was  up  against  a tartar,  for  suddenly  to 
my  surprise  he  leaned  forward,  and  in  a tone  which 
was  in  marked  contrast  to  his  former  demeanour, 
he  said  to  my  friend  in  a half-whisper,  so  that  his 
companions  should  not  hear : 

“ I must  apologise  if  I spoke  somewhat 
brusquely.  I don’t  object  to  smoking — in  fact, 
could  do  with  a cigar  myself — but  the  ladies  don’t 
like  it.” 

It  was  a big  climb  down,  and  proved  him  to  be 
only  a cur  in  spite  of  his  size. 

The  mention  of  railway  journeys  and  bullying 
recalls  another  incident  which,  although  it  has  no 
connection  with  this  particular  trip  to  Moret,  may 
be  recounted  here  whilst  it  is  in  my  memory.  One 
Sunday  morning  several  of  us  were  going  into 
the  country  for  the  day.  Amongst  the  party  was 

212 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

a young  fellow  doing  his  service  militaire,  and 
who  was  therefore  in  uniform.  He  was  a private 
in  a line  regiment.  We  were  late  in  arriving  at 
the  Gare  St  Lazare,  and  only  had  just  about 
enough  time  to  catch  our  train.  The  station  was 
crowded  with  excursionists  like  ourselves,  and  we 
were  rushing  through  the  big  hall  towards  the 
door  leading  to  our  platform,  when  suddenly  we 
heard  someone  call  out  roughly : 

“ Militaire,  halt! 

We  looked  round,  not  thinking  for  a moment 
that  it  concerned  us,  when  we  discovered  the 
speaker  was  a fiery-looking  captain  of  chasseurs 
a cheval — and  that  he  was  calling  out  to  our  soldier 
companion.  Although  we  were,  as  I said,  already 
late  for  our  train,  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do 
but  halt  as  he  was  told  to  do.  The  captain  came 
up  to  him  and  said  gruffly : 

“ Stand  at  attention.  Why  didn’t  you  salute 
me  as  you  passed  just  now.^  ” 

“ I’m  very  sorry,  mon  capitaine,”  replied  our 
friend  humbly,  ‘‘  but  I was  in  such  a hurry  that  I 
didn’t  see  you.” 

“ In  such  a hurry  that  you  didn’t  see  me,  was 
it?  ” retorted  the  officer.  “ Well,  I’ll  give  you  time 
to  do  it  now.  You  will  right  about  turn,  take  a 
hundred  paces,  return,  and  salute  me,  allons. 
Marchez.” 

Everybody  round  about  stopped  to  watch  the 

curious  and  unusual  scene.  It  was  very  amusing 

213 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

and  interesting  to  them  no  doubt,  but  not  so  to 
us,  as  it  meant  that  our  day  was  spoilt.  Of  course 
our  friend  had  absolutely  no  alternative  but  to 
obey.  So  we  stood  by  whilst  he  mechanically  did 
what  he  had  been  ordered  to,  as  of  course  we  would 
not  leave  him.  And  when  he  had  finished,  the 
officer,  who  had  been  watching  him  grimly  to  see 
that  he  did  the  movement  correctly,  said  to  him : 

“ This  will  teach  you  in  future  to  keep  your 
eyes  open — however  much  you  may  be  in  a 
hurry.” 

Several  people  standing  round  expressed  their 
opinion  that,  although  he  was  undoubtedly  in  his 
right,  from  the  point  of  view  of  military  discipline, 
he  had  perhaps  been  a little  too  severe,  and  that 
it  would  not  have  hurt  him  to  have  taken  no 
notice  of  so  trivial  a breach  of  it,  considering  the 
circumstances. 

Needless  to  add,  we  missed  our  train. 

But  revenons  a nos  moutons — or  rather  to  Moret. 
I spent  a few  delightful  days  there — as  it  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  most  picturesque  spots  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Fontainebleau;  the  fact  of  its 
being  overrun  with  artists  is  sufficient  proof  of 
this.  My  friend  s house  was  very  old  and  quaint. 
I well  remember  my  delight  in  looking  out  of  my 
bedroom  window  the  first  morning  I was  there. 
The  view  was  magnificent,  and  quite  unexpected, 
as  when  we  had  arrived  it  was  late  at  night,  and 
to  all  appearances,  as  far  as  one  could  make  out 

214 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

in  the  dark,  the  house  was  quite  an  ordinary  build- 
ing, and  level  with  the  road.  To  my  surprise  I 
saw  that  it  was  built  in  the  side  of  an  extremely 
steep  hill,  with  extensive  gardens  running  down  in 
terraces  to  the  river,  some  distance  away.  The 
entrance-hall  was,  as  it  were,  on  the  top  floor,  and 
one  went  downstairs  to  the  principal  rooms,  which 
conveyed  a most  curious  impression. 

Owing  to  the  unfortunate  mishap  on  the  way, 
and  the  loss  of  my  palette  and  paints,  I was  not 
able  to  do  any  work,  so  contented  myself  with 
taking  it  easy,  and  as  there  was  plenty  to  see,  and 
both  my  friend  and  I were  champion  flaneurs,  we 
managed  to  pass  away  the  time  very  easily.  It  is 
curious  how  pleasant  it  is  to  loll  idly  over  the 
parapet  of  an  old  bridge,  and  gaze  at  the  running 
stream  beneath  you,  especially  on  a warm  sunny 
morning.  The  French  word  flaner  describes  this 
sort  of  occupation  very  succinctly,  and  it  is  curious 
how  easily  the  habit  is  acquired.  No  previous  ex- 
perience, knowledge,  or  any  mental  effort  are 
necessary.  It  comes  quite  naturally  to  one.  All 
that  is  requisite  for  a full  enjoyment  of  this  gift  is 
a bridge,  or,  failing  that,  any  low  wall — and  both 
these  adjuncts  were  to  be  found  in  the  quaint  old 
town  of  Moret,  so  it  was  a typical  place  to  idle  in. 


215 


CHAPTER  XVII 


Chang-ing  characteristics  of  Montmartre — Advent  of  music^ 
The  Divan  Japonais — The  opening  night — A merry 
evening — The  orchestra — The  audience  oblige  on  the 
piano — An  impromptu  dance — Going  round  Montmartre — 
A “ chinois  sur  le  zinc  ” — The  garden  de  marchand  de 
vins — An  unexpected  musical  talent — The  gargon  becomes 
a great  pianist — Christmas  in  Montmartre — A party  in 
studio  in  the  Rue  Bochard  de  Saron — Artistic  arrange- 
ments— I give  an  impromptu  ventriloquial  entertainment 
— Extraordinary  effect — “ All’s  well  that  ends  well  ” — 
Another  incident — A duel  by  arrangement — Drawing  lots 
— An  unexpected  climax. 

With  the  closing  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Rochefoucauld 
there  came  about  a great  change  in  our  life  in 
Montmartre ; the  place  had  so  long  exercised  an 
influence,  as  it  were,  on  our  daily  habits,  that  it  is 
no  exaggeration  to  state  that  we  felt  like  fish  out  of 
water  for  some  time  after  that  final  dinner  in  the 
old  place.  It  was  not  easy  to  fill  up  the  hiatus  ^ 
and  still  less  to  find  another  place  of  rendezvous 
which  would,  even  to  a certain  extent,  replace  the 
familiar  surroundings  we  had  so  long  been  accus- 
tomed to.  Of  cafes  in  Montmartre  there  were  of 
course  no  end ; every  street  almost  has  its  own 
particular  etablissement,  which  is  practically  the 

216 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

club  of  its  regular  habitues,  who  are  usually  resi- 
dents in  the  immediate  neighbourhood — and  who 
are  always  to  be  found  there  at  certain  times. 

It  was  thus  with  the  Rochefoucauld;  therefore 
the  hardship  to  its  clientHe  its  closing  entailed  can 
be  better  appreciated.  We  found  ourselves  practi- 
cally out  in  the  street,  and  with  but  little  hope  of 
ever  being  again  united  in  the  cheery  camaraderie 
we  had  so  long  enjoyed.  I and  my  particular  pals 
drifted  somehow  to  the  Nouvelle  Athenes  on  the 
Place  Pigalle,  where  for  some  time  we  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  going  for  an  aperitif  and  a chat 
before  dinner.  In  the  evenings  we  generally 
managed  to  put  in  a cheery  time  going  round  to 
the  different  cafes,  and  looking  up  friends  in  other 
quarters. 

But  a change  was  slowly  but  surely  coming  over 
Montmartre,  and  one  could  not  but  notice  it;  the 
old  life  was  not  what  it  was — there  were  signs  of  a 
restlessness  that  was  scarcely  in  keeping  with  what 
one  might  term  the  traditions  of  the  district,  and 
this  was  beginning  to  be  more  noticeable  in  cafe 
life.  The  most  significant  symptoms  of  this 
unrest  was  the  advent  of  music,  not  only  in 
the  etablissements  de  nuit  which  were  gradually 
springing  up,  but  in  the  cafes  and  brasseries  with 
which  the  Quartier  was  becoming  more  and  more 
supplied.  When  I had  first  taken  up  my  abode 
in  the  neighbourhood  music  was  unknown  almost 
in  any  of  the  cafes  along  the  Boulevard’s  exterieurs 

217 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

near  the  Place  Pigalle,  and  had  such  an  innova- 
tion been  suggested  to  any  of  the  proprietors  of 
these  establishments  it  would  have  been  received 
and  dismissed  with  a shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

The  opening  of  the  “ Chat  Noir  ” had,  however, 
in  a large  measure  started  the  change,  not  only  in 
the  Quartier,  but  also  in  the  ideas  of  its  inhabi- 
tants. Perhaps  about  the  first  of  the  cafes  where 
music  was  introduced  was  at  one  called  the  Divan 
Japonais  in  the  Rue  Lepic — if  I remember  rightly, 
for  it  has  long  ceased  to  exist — and  it  caught  on 
at  once.  I recollect  the  proprietor  gave  a big 
house-warming  on  the  opening  night,  and  we  were 
all  invited — and  had  a merry  evening. 

Everything  in  the  shape  of  drinks  and  smokes 
was  free  up  till  a certain  hour,  and  as  this  was 
known  beforehand,  most  of  the  guests  were  there 
early,  and  were  very  thirsty  till  the  end  of  the 
reception.  There  was  a small  orchestra  consist- 
ing of  pianist,  a portly  cornet  player,  and  a ’cellist ; 
and  when  they  got  tired,  volunteers  with  musical 
talent  and  otherwise  from  amongst  the  audience 
obliged  on  the  piano,  and  the  opening  ceremony 
ended  with  an  impromptu  dance,  rather  an  inno- 
vation for  a cafe  in  those  days. 

Talking  of  music  reminds  me  of  an  interesting 
incident  that  occurred  about  this  time.  One  even- 
ing a party  of  us  were  going  round  Montmartre — 
and  when  I mention  that  there  were  several  pretty 
girls  with  us  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that 

218 


“i\  Tin-;  k\’i;mxc;s  w k (;r:Ni;K.\i.i.Y  m.\\a(;i;i)  to  ih:t  in  a ciiki'.rv 

II.MK  C.OIXC.  ROl-Xl)  TO  TIIK  I)I  FFICRIAT  CAFFS." 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

we  were  having  a lively  time  as  usual.  Suddenly, 
as  we  were  going  along  the  Boulevard  Roche- 
chouart,  someone  suggested  our  going  to  a 
marchand  de  vin  we  knew  of,  and  having  a 
“ chinois  sur  le  zinc  ” — in  other  words,  a prunes 
a I’eau  de  vin — across  the  counter.  Many  wine- 
shops in  the  Quartier  made  a speciality  of  these 
delicacies  in  those  days.  So  we  made  for  the 
particular  establishment — a very  unpretentious 
little  place  in  a back  street  close  by.  There  was 
no  one  there  at  the  moment,  and  our  irruption 
seemed  to  divert  the  patron  hugely — as  these 
wineshops  are  usually  only  frequented  by  ouvriers. 
As  we  were  standing  at  the  bar  taking  our  con- 
sommations,  amidst  much  laughter,  for  as  no 
spoons  are  provided  one  has  to  use  one’s  fingers, 
we  noticed  a piano  in  a small  room  adjoining ; so 
we  all  went  in,  and  someone  who  fancied  himself 
as  a pianist  started  playing  a lively  tune  which  set 
us  singing.  The  patron  came  and  stood  at  the 
door,  smoking  a pipe,  and  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets ; he  was  evidently  very  much  interested 
in  his  unusual  clients.  After  a few  minutes  he 
remarked  that  if  we  would  like  to  hear  some  good 
music  he  had  a gargon  who  would  play  to  us. 

“ Send  him  along,”  we  cried,  tickled  at  the  idea 
of  a gargon  de  marchand  de  vins  being  a musician 
as  well. 

“Jean,”  he  called  out,  “ venez  faire  un  peu  de 
musique  pour  ces  dames  et  messieurs.” 

219 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

An  extremely  good-looking  young  fellow  of 
about  twenty  appeared  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  After 
a little  ironical  and  jocular  persuading  on  our  part, 
for  it  seemed  to  us  too  funny  for  words,  and  he 
must  have  known  we  were  laughing  at  him,  he  sat 
down  to  the  instrument.  I shall  never  forget  the 
look  on  the  faces  of  my  companions  as  soon  as  he 
commenced.  He  was  a born  musician — a positive 
genius.  We  all  looked  at  each  other  and  stood 
spellbound.  The  joke,  if  any,  was  on  his  side 
now.  Without  faltering,  and  yet  in  the  most 
modest  manner,  he  played  a most  complicated 
morceau  by  Chopin,  a piece  one  would  have 
expected  to  hear  at  a concert.  When  he  had 
finished  there  was  a great  outburst  of  genuine 
applause.  Our  fun  at  his  expense  was  changed  to 
amazement,  and  we  crowded  round  him,  all  anxious 
to  know  how  and  where  he  had  managed  to  attain 
his  marvellous  ability ; and  learned  to  our  surprise 
that  he  was  quite  self-taught.  He  told  us  that  he 
hoped  one  day  to  get  into  the  Conservatoire  of 
Music  if  he  could  manage  to  save  up  sufficient 
money.  From  this  moment  he  was  the  centre  of 
attraction,  to  the  ladies  particularly — and  he  played 
and  played  to  their  hearts’  content,  for  his  repertoire 
appeared  limitless. 

The  patron  meanwhile  stood  by  with  an  air  of 
pride. 

“ What  did  I tell  you ! ” he  exclaimed.  ‘‘  I knew 
I was  not  exaggerating.” 

220 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IIS  PARIS 

Some  of  us  had  a talk  with  him  aside,  and  he 
told  us  the  young  fellow — who  was  not  a Parisian 
— had  only  been  with  him  a short  time ; that  he 
had  a good  reference  when  he  came,  but  beyond 
that  he  knew  nothing  about  him.  Then,  turning 
to  the  rest  of  the  party,  he  made  the  good-humoured 
but  curious  suggestion  that  as  he  was  about 
to  close  we  might  like  to  take  the  musician 
with  us  and  show  him  a bit  of  the  Quartier, 
as  he  was  new  to  Paris.  We  could  not 
well  refuse  after  having  been  thus  entertained, 
so  we  got  him  to  come  along ; and  when  he  had 
put  on  his  coat  and  hat  he  looked  a very  gentle- 
manly and  well-bred  young  fellow,  and  we  almost 
got  jealous  of  the  attentions  the  ladies  lavished 
on  him.  A few  days  later  I was  passing  the  wine- 
shop and  noticed  the  patron  standing  at  the  door ; 
when  he  saw  me  he  called  out  laughingly,  “ What 
have  you  done  with  my  gar^on  ? ” 

I stopped  to  ask  what  he  meant — ^when,  to  my 
surprise,  he  informed  me  that  he  had  not  seen  the 
gar^on  since  the  evening  we  had  taken  him  away 
with  us.  I assured  him  I knew  nothing  whatever  of 
his  whereabouts,  and  was  much  astonished  at  his 
mysterious  disappearance.  That  evening  I learned 
that  one  of  our  friends  had  been  so  much  impressed 
with  the  extraordinary  talent  of  the  youth,  that  he 
had  interested  himself  on  his  behalf,  and  forthwith 
gave  him  an  introduction  to  one  of  the  leading 
men  of  the  Conservatoire ; his  career,  therefore, 

221 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

as  a gargon  de  cafe  was  ended,  for  he  had  been 
taken  up  by  a rich  man,  and  would  be  able  in 
future  to  carry  out  his  cherished  desire  to  study 
music  seriously.  This  is  a great  many  years  ago. 
The  erstwhile  gargon  de  cafe  is  now  one  of  the 
greatest  pianists  of  the  world. 

That  Christmas  was  very  lively.  On  one  occa- 
sion a lot  of  us  had  dined  together  and  had  gone 
on  to  the  Elysee  Montmartre  later,  as  there  was 
a fete  on.  We  were  all  in  great  spirits,  and  went 
round  afterwards  and  finished  up  the  evening,  or 
rather  what  was  left  of  the  night,  at  a friend’s 
studio  close  by  in  the  Rue  Bochard  de  Saron. 
There  was  quite  a little  crowd  of  us,  and  several 
pretty  models  also.  We  had  invited  ourselves, 
as  we  knew  there  was  a piano.  Our  friend  had 
told  us  he  had  nothing  to  offer  us  in  the  shape  of 
refreshment — probably  to  put  us  off,  as  it  was  a 
bit  late  even  for  the  Quartier — but  we  were  not 
to  be  got  rid  of  so  easily.  We  all  armed  ourselves 
with  bottles  of  wine,  saucisses,  cheese,  fruit,  and 
bread,  which  we  bought  at  the  cafe — all  that  one 
could  want  for  an  impromptu  supper ; after  which 
we  formed  up  in  mock  military  formation  on  the 
Boulevard,  someone  took  command,  then  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a cheery  march,  which  we  sang 
in  chorus,  we  all  stepped  out  in  grand  style. 

I have  often  thought  since  how  absolutely 
impossible  such  goings-on  would  have  been  in 
staid  old  London — even  in  the  most  artistic 


222 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

quarter — five  or  six  years  ago ; only  fancy  such  a 
procession  at  three  in  the  morning  in,  let  us  say, 
St  John’s  Wood.  One  can  imagine  the  denoue- 
ment, and  where  it  would  have  taken  place.  But 
in  those  days  in  Montmartre  the  police  seldom 
interfered  with  artists,  unless  it  was  for  some  very 
flagrant  breach  of  the  regulations.  And  singing 
or,  rather,  making  a noise  at  night,  was  not  con- 
sidered a very  serious  offence,  especially  during 
the  festive  season.  The  ebullition  of  youth  did 
not  suffer  much  restriction  at  the  hands  of  the  law, 
therefore,  so  long  as  it  did  not  go  too  far. 

Well,  we  got  to  the  studio,  and  fixed  up  quite 
an  imposing  supper  table  with  what  we  had 
brought  with  us  in  the  way  of  food  and  liquid. 
It  made  quite  a great  display.  We  then  dis- 
covered, however,  the  reason  for  our  friend’s 
reticence  in  inviting  us  to  his  studio  for  the  supper, 
as  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  broken 
his  only  glass  that  afternoon,  and  had  no  plates 
or  knives  and  forks.  Everything  was  down  in  the 
country — so  he  said.  This  was  a bit  of  a shock : 
but  a la  guerre  comme  a la  guerre,  and  we  were 
preparing  to  “ pig  it  ” when  someone  exclaimed 
“ Eureka,”  and  pointed  to  the  pottery  and  swords 
and  bayonets  decorating  the  walls.  In  spite  of  our 
host’s  protests  that  they  were  thick  with  the  dust 
of  ages,  down  they  came ; the  girls  wiped  them  cn 
a towel,  and  with  an  old  china  bowl  as  a loving-cup 
we  sat  down  to  the  banquet.  It  was  indeed  an 

223 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

artistic  arrangement,  the  swords  and  bayonets 
serving  as  knives  and  forks,  a sheet  as  a tablecloth, 
and  towels  as  napkins. 

We  were  a boisterous  and  merry  crew,  and  very 
soon  the  girls  were  somewhat  in  a state  of  des- 
habille. I may  here  mention  that  I was  always  a 
bit  of  a ventriloquist ; and  whilst  we  were  in  the 
midst  of  the  banquet,  and  the  studio  resounding 
with  laughter,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  to  knock 
loudly  on  the  entrance-door,  which  was  immedi- 
ately at  my  back.  This  was  easily  done  with  the 
hilt  of  a sword  which  L^held  behind  me;  no  one 
noticed  my  movement. 

Immediately  the  din  ceased. 

“ What’s  that  ? ” the  women  whispered,  ner- 
vously arranging  their  disordered  attire. 

I again  knocked  in  a peremptory  manner. 

Our  host  held  up  his  hand  to  enjoin  our  keeping 
silent ; then  shouted  out : 

“Who’s  there 

Everyone  naturally  looked  towards  the  door, 
not  knowing  what  was  going  to  happen  next,  for  it 
was  no  friendly  knock  I had  given.  I turned  also — 
which,  of  course,  hid  any  movement  of  my  lips. 

“ I am  the  Commissaire  of  Police ; open  in  the 
name  of  the  law,”  I called  out,  making  my  voice 
appear  to  come  from  outside,  and  then  looked 
round  to  see  the  effect  of  my  joke.  It  was  magical, 
and  surpassed  anything  of  the  kind  I had  ever 
attempted  before.  I could  not  have  believed  it 

224 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

possible  for  people  to  be  taken  in  so  completely- 
Consternation  was  on  every  face.  Our  friend 
whispered  hurriedly: 

“ Let’s  gather  up  all  the  things ; he  must  not 
see  I’ve  been  having  a party.  And  you  girls  had 
better  go  and  hide  somewhere  in  my  room  or  in 
the  kitchen.  Someone  has  evidently  been  to  the 
police  station  and  made  a complaint  about  the  row 
at  this  time  of  night.  I was  afraid  it  would  happen.” 
I could  hardly  keep  my  countenance,  but  I 
managed  to  give  another  and  still  louder  knock — 
and  called  out: 

“ Allons,  ouvrez  je  vous  dis.” 

At  this  the  girls  nearly  went  into  hysterics,  and 
made  a wild  scramble  for  the  inner  room ; and  the 
men  hastily  collected  the  remains  of  the  feast. 
They  all  seemed  to  lose  their  heads — for  why,  I 
couldn’t  make  out,  for  a moment’s  reflection  would 
have  convinced  them  that  we  were  not  breaking 
the  law  by  having  an  impromptu  supper-party  with 
some  models  in  a studio. 

Emboldened  by  the  success  of  my  joke,  I called 
out  in  a brave  tone  to  the  imaginary  Commissaire : 
“ All  right ; don’t  be  angry.  Monsieur.  I am 
going  to  open  the  door  directly  ” ; and  was  about 
to  suit  the  action  to  my  words  when  to  my  further 
amazement,  my  friend,  who  was  a very  powerful 
chap,  rushed  forward,  and  seizing  me  roughly  by 
the  arms,  held  me  back,  saying  in  a voice  harsh 
with  excitement: 


225 


p 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Are  you  mad  ? Do  you  want  to  get  us  all  into 
trouble?  You  mustn’t  open  the  door  till  the  girls 
are  out  of  the  way ! ” 

I pretended  to  struggle  with  him;  at  the  same 
time  calling  out  again  loudly  to  the  Commissaire 
that  I was  going  to  open  the  door,  but  my  comrade 
would  not  let  me.  This  time  a heavy  hand  was 
placed  over  my  mouth  to  prevent  me  saying  more. 
I felt  it  was  time  to  conclude  my  entertainment, 
or  I might  get  hurt.  I wrenched  myself  free,  and, 
roaring  with  laughter,  told  them  that  it  was  only  a 
little  joke  of  mine. 

“ A joke,”  they  all  repeated — and  the  girls 
peeped  in  at  the  door  on  hearing  the  word 
“ plaisanterie.”  “ Where  does  the  joke  come  in  ? 
Please  don’t  make  a fool  of  yourself;  we  don’t 
want  to  get  into  the  hands  of  the  police  if  you  do.” 

Never  had  I dreamed  that  my  humble  effort  could 
have  been  so  successful.  It  was  only  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  I convinced  them  that  there 
really  was  no  one  outside.  It  was  the  funniest 
joke  I ever  attempted — and  for  a long  while  after 
it  was  talked  about,  and  I was  continually  being 
called  upon  to  speak  to  strangers  who  had  got  lost 
up  the  chimney,  or  locked  in  dark  cellars,  and 
couldn’t  get  out. 

All  our  joking  did  not,  however,  always  end  so 
happily.  One  one  occasion  there  might  have  been 
an  unpleasantness  if  not  tragedy.  It  came  about 
this  wise. 


226 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

Several  of  us  were  in  the  Nouvelle  Athfenes  one 
evening  when  someone,  who  was  reading  a paper, 
remarked  that  there  appeared  to  be  quite  an 
epidemic  of  duelling  in  Paris  at  the  time.  One 
read  of  duels  in  the  papers  every  day. 

“ It’s  all  an  advertisement,”  said  someone  else ; 

“ no  one  ever  gets  hurt,  or  very  seldom  at  any 
rate.” 

This  led  to  a lively  discussion  on  the  easy  ^ay 
a man  could  gain  a reputation  for  being  a duellist 
and  a man  of  great  courage. 

“ It’s  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world ; you’ve  only 
got  to  arrange  everything  carefully  and  systemati- 
cally beforehand — a public  insult,  exchange  of 
cards,  appointment  of  seconds,  meeting  arranged, 
then  two  shots  fired  at  the  regulation  distance  but 
with  blank  cartridge — and  honneur  est  satisfaite. 
The  adversaries  shake  hands  and  go  off  with  their 
seconds  to  a nice  little  lunch  somewhere — and  all 
the  papers  would  speak  about  the  affaire.” 

The  idea  struck  us  all  as  being  so  original  and 
fraught  with  such  possibilities  that  someone  sug- 
gested what  a splendid  joke  it  would  be  to  have 
a duel  in  our  own  set.  The  idea  was  taken  up 
with  enthusiasm ; and  we  started  to  arrange  the 
details  for  it  to  come  off  that  evening.  It  was  settled 
that  we  should  draw  lots  to  decide  who  were  to  be 
the  principals.  Every  part  in  connection  with  the 
duel  was  written  on  small  pieces  of  paper,  put  into 

a hat,  and  we  agreed  to  abide  by  the  result.  I 

227 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

drew  one  of  the  “ seconds,”  someone  else  “ the 
doctor,”  and  so  on.  The  principals  turned  out  to 
be  two  burly  fellows  who  would  look  very  impres- 
sive in  their  role. 

When  this  was  done,  a long  discussion  ensued 
as  to  the  most  effective  and  theatrical  way  of  bring- 
about  the  spoof  result.  This  was  somewhat  diffi- 
cult to  decide  on,  but  at  length  it  was  settled  that 
the  two  principals  should  be  sitting  playing  picquet 
in  a cafe  and  a quarrel  should  occur  between  them ; 
we  would  all  interfere,  and  then  suddenly  one  of 
them  would  spring  up  and  pretend  to  smack  the 
other  across  the  mouth,  whereupon  he  would 
instantly  produce  his  card  and  hand  it  across  the 
table,  saying  that  his  seconds  would  wait  on 
his  aggressor  the  following  day.  It  worked  out 
capitally;  we  had  a dress  rehearsal  there  and 
then — and  were  so  elated  at  its  realism  that  we 
decided  to  carry  it  out  at  once ; and  one  of  our 
party,  a journalist,  promised  to  send  an  account 
of  the  “ incident  ” at  once  to  the  papers,  so  as  to 
prepare  the  public  for  a bloodthirsty  duel.  I 
forgot  to  mention  that  the  man  who  had  drawn  the 
paper  which  assigned  to  him  the  part  of  the  insulted 
party  was  a somewhat  peppery  and  very  conceited 
individual,  just  the  sort  of  chap  who  would  be 
likely  to  get  into  trouble. 

Well,  off  we  started  for  the  cafe,  where  the  pre- 
liminary proceedings  in  the  way  of  the  smack  in 

the  face  and  exchange  of  cards  were  to  take  place. 

228 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

We  had  chosen  one  some  little  distance  away — in 
order  to  run  no  risk  of  meeting  anyone  likely  to 
know  us.  As  we  went  along  we  rehearsed  our 
various  parts.  At  last  we  arrived  at  the  cafe,  and 
just  as  we  were  going  in  the  “ insulted  ” party,  who 
had  been  very  silent  as  we  came  along,  suddenly 
stopped  us  and  said,  “ Let’s  clearly  understand 
what  I’ve  got  to  do — so  as  not  to  make  any 
mistake.” 

“ Well,  it’s  very  easy  to  remember,”  replied  his 
“aggressor.”  “You  call  me  a sacre  couillon  or 
anything  worse  than  that  if  you  can  think  of  any-^ 
thing ; I jump  up  and  smack  you  across  the  mouth 
and  you  then  pull  out  your  card  and  hand  it  to  me.” 
“ After  I’ve  hit  you  back  ? ” 

“ Of  course  not — you  don’t  hit  me  at  all ; that’s 
part  of  the  compact  that  leads  to  the  duel.” 

“ Oh,  don’t  I ? Well,  I’m  not  going  to  let  you 
hit  me  without  returning  it,  compact  or  no  compact 
— so  I warn  you.  I’ll  hand  you  my  card  after- 
wards.” 

That  duel  was  off. 


22y 


CHAPTER  XVIIl 


Some  Strang©  examples  of  Bohemianism — The  hidden  treasure 
— An  unexpected  meeting  after  several  years — A pathetic 
story — The  dead  child — Another  incident — A bad-tempered, 
jealous  woman  and  a meek  artist — The  worm  turns  at 
last — A dramatic  ending  to  a collage — Perverted  Bohem- 
ianism— The  young  student  and  the  married  woman — 
Ruin  and  disgrace — ^The  usurers  of  the  Quartier  Latin — 
Thedr  hunting-gjound  and  their  agents — The  spider  and 
the  fly — Speculative  risks  of  money-lenders — Cherchez  la 
femme — Contrast  between  Paris  and  London— Student  life. 


Whilst  I was  living  in  Montmartre  I came  across 
some  strange  examples  of  Bohemianism  amongst 
the  artists.  Here  is  one,  for  instance,  which  I 
think  would  be  hard  to  beat ; anyhow,  it  proves,  if 
nothing  else,  that  truth  is  often  more  curious  than 
fiction. 

A painter  I knew  very  well  was  living  en  menage 
with  a petite  amie  in  a small  studio  on  the  Boule- 
vard de  Clichy.  He  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones  to 
this  extent,  that  he  had  a small  income  of  his  own 
— very  small,  but  sufficient  to  prevent  him  from 
starving.  Still,  he  had  to  be  very  careful  indeed ; 
otherwise  he  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  through 
every  quarter  till  his  next  remittance  arrived. 

Occasionally,  however,  he  was  lucky  enough  to 

230 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

earn  a little  extra  with  a portrait  or  with  a black- 
and-white  drawing;  and  on  these  occasions,  with 
the  usual  insouciance  of  the  artist,  he  would  have 
a “ bust  up  ” — “ II  s’en  payait  pendant  quelques 
jours,”  as  he  used  to  put  it.  And  he  and  his  amie 
would  have  a real  good  time  whilst  the  unexpected 
funds  lasted.  It  was  no  doubt  stupid;  but,  as  I 
have  said,  he  could  never  actually  starve  whatever 
happened,  so  there  was  no  particular  reason  for 
him  to  save  money. 

Well,  it  was  shortly  after  one  of  these  festive 
occasions  and  when  the  quarter  was  barely  com- 
menced, that  he  found  himself  “dans  la  puree  la 
plus  epaisse.”  It  was  Carnival  time,  and  the 
money  had  simply  melted  away,  and  one  morning, 
after  an  especially  lurid  night  of  revelry,  he  found 
himself  confronted  with  a peremptory  demand  from 
his  proprietaire  for  the  rent  of  the  studio  without 
delay — and  he  had  not  got  the  wherewithal  to  meet 
it.  As  a rule,  his  landlord  was  not  in  a hurry  for 
his  money;  but  this  time  he  was  not  inclined  to 
be  lenient.  He  had  just  received  a letter  from  a 
rich  uncle  from  whom  he  had  expectations  saying 
he  would  be  in  Paris  shortly  after,  and  that  inspired 
confidence  in  the  future ; but  the  immediate  pres- 
ent had  to  be  dealt  with — what  should  he  do  ? His 
landlord,  as  he  knew  from  experience,  was  one  of 
those  obdurate  individuals  who,  when  they  take  it 
into  their  heads  to  collect  the  rent  due  to  them, 

know  no  delay ; and  it  may  here  be  mentioned 

231 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

that  in  France  the  law  gives  the  landlord  full  power 
to  distrain,  if  he  is  so  minded,  within  a few  minutes 
of  rent  becoming  due. 

The  concierge,  who  usually  acts  as  his  agent 
and  collects  the  rent,  waited  patiently  for  a little 
while,  and  then,  said  that  unless  the  money  was 
forthcoming  by  midday  he  would  have  to  report  to 
the  landlord  and  a distraint  would  be  put  in.  What 
was  to  be  done  ? My  friend’s  first  impulse  was  to 
rush  out  and  endeavour  to  borrow  the  money  from 
some  of  his  pals — and  started  off  at  once  on  what 
turned  out  to  be,  as  may  be  imagined,  a futile  ex- 
pedition, as  they  were  none  of  them  much  better 
situated  than  he  was.  He  returned  to  the  studio 
full  of  wild  ideas  of  suicide,  and  so  forth;  for  a 
distraint  meant  that  all  his  worldly  belongings 
must  go. 

He  and  his  amie  sat  and  gazed  at  each  other  in 
mute  despair.  This  then  was  the  end  of  their  little 
love  dream — to  be  turned  into  the  street  and  with 
nowhere  to  go  to  for  the  sake  of  this  paltry  sum 
for  the  rent.  Could  nothing  be  done  to  avert  the 
disaster.^ — for  if  it  happened  and  his  uncle  arrived 
to  find  him  in  such  a plight  it  was  certain  that  all 
expectations  in  his  will  would  be  quashed.  A 
strait-laced  provincial  such  as  he  was  would  never 
forgive  such  a disgrace  on  the  part  of  a nephew. 

The  time  went  by  on  wings,  and  it  was  already 
eleven  o’clock ; only  one  hour  now  separated  them 

from  the  dreaded  denouement — yet  they  were  no 

232 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

nearer  getting  the  money  than  they  were  to  the 
moon.  His  amie  went  and  sat  on  his  knee  and 
affectionately  placing  her  arm  round  his  neck, 
kissed  him  tenderly  and  hinted  at  the  sweetness 
of  their  dying  together.  Their  tears  mingled. 
Suddenly  she  gave  a little  shriek,  and  jumping  up 
rushed  to  the  corner  of  the  studio,  and  with  an 
exclamation  of  wild  delight,  held  up  a golden  louis 
she  had  seen  shining  on  the  floor. 

Here  was  indeed  a bit  of  luck,  for,  at  any  rate, 
it  was  something  towards  the  necessary  sum ; but 
how  it  had  come  there,  for  it  was  certainly  unusual 
to  find  money  lying  on  the  floor  of  a studio.  Who 
could  have  dropped  it?  No  artist  friend  and  no 
one  likely  to  possess  superfluous  wealth  had  been 
there  for  days. 

All  of  a sudden  my  friend  gave  a positive  yell 
of  delight.  “ We  are  saved,’'  he  called  out, 
“ saved.” 

“ How?  ” asked  his  amie  in  an  amazed  tone. 

“Yes,  saved,”  he  repeated  excitedly,  and  em- 
bracing her  joyfully.  “ There’s  enough  not  only 
to  pay  the  rent,  but  to  have  a bit  over — here  in  the 
studio.” 

“In  the  studio,”  she  reiterated,  with  a thoroughly 
puzzled  air. 

“ Yes,  we’ve  only  got  to  look  for  it — it’s  here  for 
the  finding.”  Then  he  explained  how  some 
months  previously  he  had  had  an  unexpected  slice 
of  good-luck  and  had  made  several  hundred  francs, 

233 


my  bohemian  days  in  PARIS 

and  was  so  elated  at  his  sudden  accession  to  wealth 
that  the  idea  had  occurred  to  him  to  lay  by  a certain 
amount  against  a rainy  day ; and  as  he  had  no  place 
where  he  had  considered  the  money  would  be  quite 
safe,  and  where  he  could  not  get  at  it  too  easily, 
he  had  suddenly  conceived  the  extraordinary  idea 
of  putting  it  in  odd  places  haphazard  about  the 
studio,  so  that  when  he  was  hard  up  there  would 
be  a certain  amount  of  sport  in  hunting  for  it.  He 
had  carried  out  his  idea  by  shutting  his  eyes  and 
throwing  a louis  here,  a ten-franc  piece  there,  and 
so  on,  till  he  had  practically  hidden  a couple  of 
hundreds  francs  in  this  way.  As  he  did  not  employ 
a femme  de  menage,  and  no  one  came  into  the 
studio  but  his  amie,  the  floor,  dirty  though  it  was, 
was  therefore  under  the  circumstances  a veritable 
mine  of  riches.  The  curious  part  of  the  affair  was 
that  he  had  completely  forgotten  the  existence 
of  this  hoard  until  the  louis  had  providentially 
turned  up. 

When  the  concierge  returned  shortly  before 
midday  for  the  rent,  the  look  of  astonishment  on 
his  face  may  be  imagined  when  he  found  the  pair 
on  their  hands  and  knees  on  the  floor,  covered  with 
dirt,  and  groping  here  and  there  and  everywhere 
in  feverish  haste  amongst  the  rubbish  with  which 
the  studio  was  littered.  When,  however,  he 
learned  the  reason  of  it  all  his  astonishment 
turned  to  amiusement,  and  he  good-naturedly 
offered  to  give  them  another  hour  or  so  to  enable 

234 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

them  to  find  the  requisite  amount,  as  it  was  still  a 
few  francs  short ; but  even  whilst  he  was  speaking 
it  turned  up,  and  so  “ la  situation  etait  sauvee,”  as 
he  put  it. 

Bohemianism  in  Paris,  however,  had  often  a 
pathetic  aspect,  and  at  times  revealed  depth  of 
character  that  would  perhaps  have  never  been 
known  to  exist  had  the  conditions  of  living  been 
otherwise.  This  was  more  frequently  noticeable 
in  the  women ; possibly  for  the  reason  that  with 
the  men  their  life  in  the  Quartier  was  but  a passing 
stage,  as  it  were,  and  seldom  left  any  lasting  im- 
pression. A pretty  girl,  a broken  heart,  were  of 
but  small  import  when  the  grande  question  of  one’s 
career  was  to  the  fore.  I recollect  a particularly 
touching  incident  in  this  connection. 

I was  dining  one  day  at  a large  brasserie  with  a 
friend  who  had  not  long  returned  from  the 
Colonies.  He  was  a Government  engineer  and 
many  years  my  senior,  but  somehow  in  spite  of  the 
disparity  of  our  ages  we  had  become  great  pals,  and 
frequently  went  about  together.  We  had  not  long 
been  seated  when  a waiter  came  up  to  my  friend 
and  told  him  that  a lady  at  a table  near  us  was 
trying  to  attract  his  attention.  Naturally  we  both 
looked  in  her  direction,  and  I saw  a very  pretty 
young  woman  smile  towards  my  friend  and  wave 
her  hand  in  greeting.  To  my  surprise,  on  seeing 
her,  he  gave  a sort  of  gasp  as  though  he  had 
received  a shock,  and  although  he  stood  up  and 

235 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

genially  returned  her  salutation,  I could  see  he 
was  deadly  pale  and  looked  terribly  upset  at  the 
meeting.  As  the  lady  was  dining  with  a gentleman 
whom  he  evidently  did  not  know,  there  was  of 
course  no  excuse  for  him  to  go  across  to  her  table. 
When  he  resumed  his  seat  he  gulped  down  a glass 
of  water  and  muttered  half  aloud : 

“ Who  would  have  thought  of  coming  across  her 
here  after  all  these  years  ? ” 

I said  nothing,  feeling  it  was  best  for  him  to  tell 
me  anything  he  cared  to.  I had  no  desire  to 
intrude  on  his  privacy.  He  was  silent  for  some 
minutes,  then  turned  to  me  and  said : 

“ You  must  excuse  me,  mon  vieux,  for  being  so 
distrait,  but  it  is  plus  fort  que  moi.  I cannot  help 
it ; you  cannot  imagine  all  she  was  to  me  once,  and 
to  see  her  with  another  man  upsets  me  beyond 
words,  although  it  is  many  years  since  I last 
saw  her.” 

“ You  were  very  fond  of  her  then?  ” I remarked. 
“ Yes  indeed;  and  I believe  she  cared  more  for 
me  than  anyone  else  in  the  world.” 

“ Then  how  did  you  come  to  break  it  off? 

“ Well,  my  father  got  to  hear  of  my  liaison  and 
determined  to  end  it,  though  I did  not  realise  it 
then ; so  when  my  time  was  up  at  the  Ecole  Poly- 
technique, he  got  me,  through  the  influence  of  a 
friend  at  the  Ministere,  a mission  d’etude  de  mines 
in  the  Senegal,  and  as  I was  absolutely  dependent 
• on  my  allowance  I had  no  alternative  but  to 

236 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

accept.  I was  to  be  away  for  three  years — with 
the  possibility  of  a good  Colonial  post  to  follow. 
Marcelle,  that’s  the  name  of  the  little  girl  over 
there,  was  naturally  very  upset,  but  was  too  good- 
hearted  and  sensible  to  wish  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  my  getting  on  in  my  career ; but — here  was  the 
trouble — she  was  in  a certain  condition,  and  I was 
far  too  fond  of  her  to  leave  her  in  any  doubt  with 
regard  to  the  future — so  I arranged  that  she  should 
receive  a certain  sum  every  month  through  a great 
friend  of  mine.  She  was  not  an  extravagant 
girl,  so  there  would  be  ample  for  her  needs, 
whatever  happened. 

“ Well,  I went  off,  and  was  away  in  the  interior 
several  months,  where  no  letters  could  reach  me. 
At  last  I got  back  to  the  coast,  and  amongst  a 
packet  of  correspondence  were  several  from  her, 
in  which  she  told  me  how  much  she  missed  me — 
and  hoped  I would  come  back  to  her  safely ; and 
then  another  in  which  she  wrote  that  our  child  had 
been  born,  but  had  only  lived  for  three  months, 
that  after  its  death  she  had  decided  to  go  back  to 
her  parents  in  the  country — that  they  had  forgiven 
her  everything ; and  she  ended  by  wishing  me  good- 
luck  and  so  on.  A long  letter,  brimming  over  with 
affection;  but  somehow  I had  an  idea,  on  reading 
it,  that  there  was  something  in  her  mind — some- 
thing that  the  mere  words  did  not  express.  I had 
heard  of  a woman’s  nature  changing  under  certain 
conditions;  and  so  it  turned  out  in  this  instance, 

237 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

for  that  was  the  last  letter  I received  from  her, 
although  I wrote  time  after  time.’’ 

There  was  a long  pause,  and  then  he  suddenly 
added,  as  though  he  had  been  recalling  his 
souvenirs,  “ You  have  no  idea,  mon  vieux,  how 
one  suffers  when  one  is  far  away  and  in  the  wilds, 
and  one  is  waiting  for  a letter  from  someone  one 
loves  and  it  never  comes ; the  days  drag  on  with 
maddening  slowness — and  then  the  mail  again 
arrives  and  still  there  is  nothing.  One  is  so  help- 
less, for  what  can  one  do? — nothing  but  hope  on 
against  hope.  And  so  it  was  with  me,  and  the 
years  passed  by  with  no  further  sign.  She  might 
have  been  dead  for  all  I knew.  And  at  last  when 
I got  leave  and  returned  to  France  and  Paris,  my 
first  idea  was  to  seek  her.  I had  been  thinking 
it  over  for  so  many  months  in  the  long  days  in  the 
Bush — and  was  so  looking  forward  to  our  meeting ; 
but  she  had  left  no  address,  and  I had  no  notion 
where  her  parents  lived — except  that  it  was  some- 
where near  Chaumont,  a very  vague  indication. 
Besides  which  I knew  the  name  she  went  by  at  the 
theatre  was  not  her  own.  Well,  the  time  passed 
by  and  my  leave  was  up,  and  I went  back  to  the 
coast  for  another  spell,  and  stayed  away  two  years  ; 
and  here  I am  de  retour — and  we  suddenly  meet 
like  this.  Strange,  is  it  not?  ” 

I agreed  with  him  that  it  certainly  was  very 
extraordinary  after  their  affectionate  relationship, 

and  took  a furtive  glance  towards  the  lady  who  had 

^38 


MY  BOHEMIAN  BAYS  IN  PARIS 

taken  such  a hold  on  his  life.  She  was  certainly 
very  pretty  and  evidently  a charming  personality 
as  well.  Her  companion  was  a young  fellow 
almost  of  her  own  age,  and  appeared  to  be  devoted 
to  her;  and  that  tliere  had  been  no  secret  in  her 
knowing  my  friend  was  evident  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  frankly  looked  in  our  direction.  We  had 
not  yet  finished  our  dinner  when  I saw  them  get- 
ting up  to  leave,  and  she  beckoned  to  my  com- 
panion to  go  over  and  speak  to  her.  He  went 
with  alacrity,  his  face  beaming.  I carefully  re- 
frained from  looking  at  their  meeting,  as  I did  not 
wish  to  appear  inquisitive ; but  I could  not  help 
noticing  that  her  companion  walked  on  so  as  t( 
leave  her  alone. 

My  friend  was  not  gone  long,  and  when  he 
returned  to  his  seat  I noticed  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

“ It’s  all  over,”  he  said  in  a hoarse  voice.  “ That’s 
her  husband  with  her — she’s  been  married  nearly 
three  years.  I asked  her  why  she  had  not  written 
again  and  she  told  me  she  had  thought  it  best  when 
the  child  died  that  our  liaison  should  end,  so  that  I 
should  be  quite  free.  Quite  free!”  he  repeated 
bitterly,  talking  to  himself.  Why  should  she 
have  thought  that — when  I was  always  thinking 
of  her  ? And  then,”  he  continued,  turning  to  me, 
“ she  showed  me  a little  locket  she  said  she  wears 
always,  and  in  which  is  a lock  of  our  child’s  hair. 
She  was  passionately  devoted  to  her  baby  and  was 

239 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

very  ill  after  it  died.  I wanted  her  to  come  and 
see  me  now  and  again  as  old  friends,  but  she 
refused — ‘ the  past  was  buried,’  she  told  me 
signi£cantly ; and  her  husband  is  too  good  to  her 
for  her  to  wish  to  cause  him  pain — in  fact  he  knew 
all  about  it,  and  had  allowed  her  to  speak  to  me, 
as  he  trusted  her  implicitly.  She  had  felt  she 
wanted  to  shake  hands  with  me  and  tell  me  how 
pleased  she  was  to  hear  I was  back  safely  and 
doing  so  well  in  my  work ; but  we  must  not  speak 
to  each  other  again.  Nothing  I could  say  would 
change  her  resolve.  Then  she  said  she  must  not 
keep  her  husband  waiting,  so  must  say  good-bye 
and  run  away.  Then  just  as  she  was  going 
she  came  back  and  told  me,  in  a low  tone,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes : ‘ Do  you  know,  dear,  that  if  he 
had  lived  he  would  have  been  seven  years  old  now ; 
it  was  the  anniversary  of  his  death  last  week,  and 
I came  up  to  Paris  specially  so  that  I could  go 
and  put  some  flowers  on  his  grave,  as  I have  done 
every  year,  and  as  I shall  always  do.’  ” 

His  voice  sunk  to  a hoarse  whisper,  thick  with 
deep  emotion,  and  I had  to  turn  away  to  avoid 
letting  him  see  how  deeply  his  story  had  affected 
me  also. 

Of  course  it  was  somewhat  exceptional  to  meet 
girls  of  this  description,  and  I knew  several  men 
whose  lives  were  simply  little  hells  owing  to  the 
temperament  of  the  women  they  had  got  inextric- 
ably mixed  up  with — one  in  particular  who  could 

240 


“she  was  of  so  jealous  a natui^e.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

scarcely  call  his  soul  his  own.  His  maitresse  was 
extravagant  to  such  a degree  that  although  he  was 
fairly  well  off  he  was  always  hard  up,  and  had  to 
have  recourse  to  all  sorts  of  shifts  to  get  money  to 
satisfy  her  wants  principally.  If  she  saw  any- 
thing she  took  a fancy  to,  she  was  like  a child 
crying  for  a toy ; she  must  have  it — otherwise  there 
was  a row,  and  he  was  all  that  was  mean  and  con- 
temptible, for  she  could  come  out  under  very  slight 
provocation  with  language  that  would  have  shocked 
a dame  des  halles.  Added  to  this,  she  was  of  so 
jealous  a nature  that  she  actually  interfered  with 
his  work  and  forbade  him  to  have  models  in  his 
studio  under  any  pretext.  She  would  scratch  his 
face  at  one  moment,  and  then  when  she  saw  him 
bleeding  would  seize  hold  of  him  and  devour  him 
with  kisses.  She  was  what  is  aptly  termed  in 
France  une  femme  impossible. 

I recollect  lunching  with  him  at  his  studio  on 
one  occasion,  when  there  came  a ring  at  the  ^ell ; 
immediately  I could  see  her  prick  up  her  ears,  so 
to  speak — and  when  the  femme  de  menage  called 
him  out  to  see  the  visitor  it  was  a sign  for  trouble. 
Although  I endeavoured  to  engage  her  in  conver- 
sation whilst  he  was  out  of  the  room  I could  plainly 
see  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  In  her  silly 
mind  she  was  conjuring  up  all  sorts  of  intrigues  on 
his  part ; and  after  a few  minutes  she  could  contain 
herself  no  longer,  but  jumped  up,  regardless  of 

the  fact  that  it  was  positive  rudeness  to  me,  her 

241  Q 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

guest,  and  bounced  out  of  the  room.  She  left  the 
door  open,  so  I could  hear  her  calling  out  in  a 
tone  of  suppressed  rage : 

“ Emile,  qui  as-tu  dans  Tatelier,  viens  ici  tout 
de  suite  ? 

Scenting  the  approaching  storm,  my  friend  came 
out  looking  very  sheepish — as  well  he  might,  at 
being  spoken  to  like  that  when  he  had  a business 
acquaintance  with  him.  With  a humility  for  which 
I felt  he  ought  to  have  been  kicked,  he  explained 
that  he  would  only  be  engaged  a few  moments 
longer,  and  begging  his  cherie  to  excuse  him ; but 
she  was  not  to  be  placated. 

“ Viens  tout  de  suite — j’ai  a te  parler ” 

I could  then  hear  the  man  who  was  with  him 
saying  significantly  he  would  call  again  some  other 
time  when  Monsieur  was  not  engaged — and  my 
friend  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  detain  him. 

When  we  were  again  seated  at  the  table  the 
storm  broke  forth,  and  to  my  surprise,  for  I could 
see  no  cause  for  jealousy,  or  in  fact  any  unpleas- 
antness, his  mistress  flatly  accused  him  of  having 
the  man  call  to  arrange  for  him  “ to  meet  some 
young  girls.’’  ‘‘Tu  ne  penses  qu’a  cela?”  she 
continued,  working  herself  up  into  a fury. 

There  was,  of  course,  not  the  slightest  cause  for 
all  this  scene.  My  friend  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  have  such  thoughts  or  to  dream  of  having 
anyone  call  on  him  she  objected  to ; but  it  could 

not  be  expected  tliat  he  should  turn  away  business 

242 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

callers.  But  with  her  any  pretext  was  sufficient  to 
start  a quarrel  upon,  and  she  had  gradually  ended 
by  alienating  even  his  most  intimate  friends ; they 
used  to  say  that  it  made  them  feel  positively  sick 
to  see  a man  reduced  to  the  condition  of  a mere 
worm  under  the  heel  of  this  woman. 

I was  one  of  the  last  of  his  friends  to  visit  them 
— as  somehow  I exercised  a sort  of  placating  influ- 
ence over  her,  and  I was  the  only  one  she  admitted 
she  trusted  with  her  amant.  I believe  she  actually 
considered  me  as  incapable  of  any  penchant  for  the 
fair  sex — so  if  I suggested  taking  him  to  the  cafe 
for  an  aperitif  without  her  she  would  graciously 
condescend  to  confide  him  to  my  care.  “Avec 
vous  au  moins  il  n’y  a pas  de  danger,’'  she  would 
say  with  a half-sneer  which  galled  me  beyond 
words,  and  I determined  to  get  even  with  her.  It 
was  on  these  rare  occasions  when  I got  him 
alone  that  I used  to  try  and  instil  a little  pluck 
into  him. 

“ What  do  you  see  in  her  that  you  stand  all  this 
continual  nagging  and  rowing.  She  is  no  longer 
young  or  particularly  good-looking ; has  she  then 
some  hidden  charm  that  makes  up  for  her  awful 
character  ? ” I once  ventured  to  ask. 

The  poor  fellow  shrugged  his  shoulders  weakly. 
“ Que  voulez-vous  ? ” he  replied.  “We  have  got 
together  somehow,  and  I suppose  I must  put  up 
with  it.  I admit  that  Paula  is  a bit  trying  at  times, 
but  elle  m’aime  bien.” 


243 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

“ Well/’  I replied,  “ if  that’s  love,  and  that 
is  the  way  to  prove  it,  I would  rather  be  with- 
out it.” 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  she  completely 
terrorised  him.  She  had  frequently  thrown  out 
hints  that  if  ever  she  even  saw  him  speaking  to 
another  woman  she  would  blind  him  with  vitriol, 
and  I verily  believe  she  meant  it.  So  he  appar- 
ently resigned  himself  to  his  fate — for  the  time 
being,  as  will  be  seen. 

Well,  this  terrible  existence  continued  for  many 
months,  during  which  the  creature  got,  if  possible, 
even  worse  tempered;  and  at  length  became  ob- 
sessed wdth  the  notion  that  everyone  was  conspiring 
to  alienate  her  amant’s  affections  from  her — every- 
one except  me  bien  entendu,  for  she  still  reposed 
blind  confidence  in  me  as  an  “ impotent,”  scarcely 
worth  considering.  So  I still  continued  to  lunch 
or  dine  with  them  when  I felt  inclined.  But  I 
noticed  a change  coming  over  my  friend;  he  was 
beginning  to  look  drawn  about  the  face  and 
there  was  a strange  look  at  times  in  his  eyes 
when  she  started  a scene — for  we  seldom  sat 
down  to  a meal  with  any  certainty  of  its  ending 
pleasantly,  however  happily  it  may  have  been 
commenced. 

When  he  and  I went  to  the  cafe  for  our  aperitif 
we  would  always  discuss  the  situation.  There  was 
really  no  other  topic  of  conversation  under  the 

circumstances ; and  on  one  occasion  I remember, 

244 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

after  a particularly  dreadful  exhibition  on  her  part, 
he  wailed  out  plaintively  to  me,  “ Mon  Dieu,  com- 
ment cela  va-t-il  finir,  que  faut-t-il  faire.” 

I gripped  his  arm  and  said,  “ Be  a man — that’s 
the  only  advice  I can  give  you.” 

He  sat  very  still,  as  though  wrapped  in  thought, 
for  some  time ; then,  as  though  he  had  come  to  a 
sudden  resolve,  he  swallowed  his  aperitif,  and  turn- 
ing to  me  said  abruptly,  and  in  a tone  of  voice  I 
scarcely  recognised,  “Tu  as  raison,  mon  vieux — 
come  or  we  shall  be  late  for  dinner.” 

When  we  reached  the  studio  Paula  met  us  at 
the  door.  I could  see  that  she  was  still  in  one  of 
her  tantrums. 

“ A nice  time  to  get  back,”  she  vociferated ; 
dinner  has  been  ready  for  over  half  an  hour  and 
everything  will  be  spoiled  as  usual.  Why  do  you 
let  him  keep  you  out  so  long,  Julius,”  she  said, 
turning  to  me. 

I protested  that  if  there  was  any  blame  I would 
share  it;  but  that  we  were  not  late  at  all,  as  I 
proved  by  my  watch. 

“ There  you  see,  ma  cherie,”  said  Emile  in  a 
pacific  tone,  “ your  clock  must  be  wrong — I knew 
we  were  not  late.” 

“ T ais-toi  et  mettons  nous  a table ; we’ll  speak 
about  this  afterwards,”  she  replied  in  a threatening 
tone. 

I endeavoured  to  laugh  it  off — but  felt  very 
uncomfortable.  We  sat  down  to  dinner  and  were 

245 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

taking  our  soup,  when  she  suddenly  turned  to  my 
friend  and  said,  “ I insist  on  knowing  what  detained 
you  so  long  at  the  cafe.  I suppose  it  was  some 
woman  of  your  numerous  acquaintances.  Come, 
out  with  it — let’s  know  who  she  was,”  she  con- 
tinued, spoiling  for  a row. 

My  friend  protested  that  there  was  no  woman 
in  the  question ; that  we  had  merely  taken  our 
aperitifs  together  and  had  not  spoken  to  a soul 
since  we  left  her.  But  it  was  of  no  avail. 

“ Y ou  are  telling  me  a lie,  and  you  know  it,” 
she  cried.  However,  only  let  me  catch  you  at 
any  game  of  that  sort  and  111  show  you  up  in  a 
way  you  little  suspect,  mon  ami.  So  I warn  you.” 
My  friend  said  nothing,  but  I saw  from  the  pallor 
that  came  over  him  that^he  was  labouring  under 
intense  excitement. 

She,  however,  saw  nothing,  but  continued  like 
a fury.  “Will  you  reply  to  me,  or  will  you  not? 
Who  was  the  woman  you  have  just  left  ? I insist 
on  knowing  her  name  ? ” 

No  reply.  There  was  none  to  make.  This 
silence  seemed  only  to  exasperate  her  the  more; 
the  bad  language  then  commenced,  as  it  always  did 
with  her  when  she  let  herself  go.  My  friend  then, 
in  a supernaturally  calm  voice,  which  in  itself 
should  have  warned  her,  then  said  gently : “ Ma 
cherie,  I beg  of  you  not  to  forget  yourself ; even  if 
you  ignore  me,  please  remember  that  my  friend  is 
present.” 


246 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

At  this  remark  all  the  floodgates  of  her  devilish 
temper  were  opened. 

“ Ton  ami,  je  mon  f de  tes  amis  comme  je 

me  f de  toi  sale  enfant  de ” Here  followed 

an  insult  levelled  at  his  mother  of  such  a nature 
that  I refrain  from  writing  it.  Its  effect  was  as 
though  she  had  put  a light  to  a powder  magazine. 
My  friend  jumped  up  as  if  he  had  received 
an  electric  shock,  and  with  a look  of  hatred  in  his 
eyes  I shall  never  forget,  he  fairly  yelled  at  her 
“ Sale  vache.  You’ve  gone  too  far  this  time,”  and 
without  a moment’s  hesitation  seized  his  glass  of 
wine  and  flung  it  straight  in  her  face.  By  a miracu- 
lous chance  the  glass  itself  missed  her  and  smashed 
against  the  buffet  behind ; but  she  received  the  full 
contents  all  over  her,  and  was  almost  blinded  for 
a second. 

“ Get  out  of  my  place  at  once,”  he  continued, 
fairly  mad  with  rage,  “ or  there  will  be  murder 
done.  I’ve  put  up  with  you  and  your  damned 
temper  long  enough,  so  out  you  go  at  once — and 
to  the  devil.  I give  you  five  minutes  to  pack  up 
and  go.  You  hear  me,  you  infernal  b ” 

To  my  utter  astonishment,  for  I was  on  tenter- 
hooks as  to  what  she  would  do,  she  got  up,  and 
wiping  her  face  and  bodice  she  retreated  slowly 
and  backwards  towards  the  door — her  eyes  fixed 
steadily  meanwhile  on  my  friend.  She  appeared 
to  be  completely  stunned  at  his  unexpected  out- 
burst of  spirit  after  so  many  months  of  humility 

247 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

and  weakness  and  giving  in  to  her.  She  was 
like  a wild  animal  that  suddenly  realises  it  has 
got  a master;  all  her  spirit  and  temper  were 
gone. 

We  stood  and  waited ; neither  of  us  said  a word. 
She  reached  the  door,  opened  it  with  a mechanical 
sort  of  movement,  and  was  gone.  We  heard  her 
go  into  the  bedroom  and  shut  herself  in ; then  we 
sat  down  and  looked  at  each  other,  wondering 
what  was  going  to  happen  next.  Ten  minutes  or 
so  passed,  then  the  door  of  the  bedroom  was  opened 
and  we  heard  her  call  out  to  the  concierge  below, 

“ Madame  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  call  a cab  for 
me  and  come  and  give  me  a hand  with  my  port- 
manteau.^’’ Then  we  heard  luggage  being  taken 
downstairs,  and  the  voice  of  the  concierge  asking 
if  Madame  was  going  away  for  long.  “ Yes,”  was 
the  reply.  “ I am  uncertain  when  I shall  return.” 
The  outer  door  of  the  studio  closed  with  a bang. 
As  it  did  so,  my  friend  who  had  been  breathing 
heavily,  jumped  up  calling  out,  “ Paula,  Paula,  oh 
reviens,”  and  would  have  rushed  to  the  door  and 
after  her  had  I not  stood  in  his  way  and  held 
him  back. 

‘‘  Pm  not  going  to  let  you  make  an  imbecile  of 
yourself,”  I cried.  “ You  are  Vv^ell  out  of  it  at  last, 
and  you  ought  to  think  yourself  very  lucky  to  have 
got  rid  of  such  a w^man.” 

He  stood  irresolute,  undecided  whether  to 

attempt  to  force  his  way  out.  Then  we  heard  the 

248 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

sound  of  the  cab  driving  away.  For  a few  seconds 
we  neither  of  us  moved,  then  to  my  utter  amaze- 
ment he  let  himself  drop  into  a chair  by  the  table, 
and  burying  his  face  on  his  arms  he  sobbed  con- 
vulsively like  a child.  It  was  the  inevitable 
reaction — for  he  had  loved  the  woman  once,  but 
I felt  it  would  do  him  no  good  giving  way  to  it, 
so  after  a while  I touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and 
said  as  firmly  as  I could,  “ Come,  buck  up,  old 
man,  and  let’s  go  out  and  get  some  dinner,  because 
I’m  famished.”  With  an  effort  he  pulled  himself 
together,  and  after  a meal  and  a good  bottle,  of 
wine,  he  was  quite  himself  again  and  we  discussed 
the  event  dispassionately.  That  he  had  nothing 
to  fear  from  her  I was  convinced ; he  had  given 
her  a fright  which  she  was  not  likely  to  forget  in  a 
hurry. 

We  returned  to  the  studio  late  in  the  evening, 
as  I had  promised  not  to  desert  him  that  night,  so 
would  sleep  on  the  sofa.  We  found  that  Paula 
had  taken  away  everything  belonging  to  her,  even 
to  her  photograph.  There  was  no  sequel  to  the 
incident;  for  strange  to  relate  from  that  day  she 
disappeared  as  completely  as  if  the  earth  had 
swallowed  her  up.  Where  she  went  to  or  what 
became  of  her  was  a complete  mystery.  As  may 
be  imagined,  my  friend  evinced  no  desire  to  find 
another  mistress  after  this  experience.  I lost  sight 
of  him  for  a time,  and  we  did  not  meet  again 

till  one  day  some  months  later  at  the  Salon.  He 

249 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

rushed  up  to  me  and  wrung  my  hand  effusively. 
He  was  genuinely  delighted  to  see  me. 

“ I must  present  you  to  my  wife,”  he  said  after 
the  first  greetings.  She  knows  all  about  that  affair 
of  Paula,”  he  told  me  as  he  led  me  to  a settee  where 
a buxom  lady  was  seated. 

“ This  is  my  old  friend  Price,”  he  said,  as  he 
introduced  me  to  her.  “ My  saviour,”  he  added 
with  a laugh. 

The  lady  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand  and  said 
graciously.  “ I need  not  tell  you  how  pleased  I 
am  to  meet  you  after  all  I know  you  did  to  help 
Emile  to  get  rid  of  that  dreadful  creature.” 

I recollect  another  instance  of  what  may  be 
termed  perverted  Bohemianism,  but  which  ended 
very  differently  to  what  I have  just  described.  It 
conveys,  however,  an  idea  of  another  aspect  of 
student  life  which  invests  it  with  a certain  morbid 
interest. 

A young  etudiant  fell  in  love  with  a married 
woman  living  in  the  Quartier,  separated  from  her 
husband.  She  was  many  years  older  than  her 
youthful  amant,  and  had  a child — a little  girl  eight 
years  of  age.  His  calf  love  developed  into  a 
veritable  infatuation,  and  there  was  no  limit  to 
what  he  would  do  for  her.  She  was  a flashy 
woman,  very  fast,  and  with  most  extravagant  ideas. 
Although  she  was  fond  of  him  in  her  way,  she  did 
not  spare  him  or  even  attempt  to  dissuade  him 
from  spending  all  his  extremely  small  allowance 

250 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

on  her.  Not  the  least  curious  part  of  his  infatu- 
ation was  the  devotion  he  displayed  for  her  child 
as  well,  and  he  became  passionately  attached  to 
it.  There  was  nothing  he  would  not  have  done 
to  give  it  pleasure,  which  naturally  helped  still 
further  to  increase  the  strain  on  his  slender  means. 

There  could  be  but  one  ending  to  such  a state 
of  affairs.  Every  sou  he  possessed  gradually 
went;  he  neglected  his  studies,  and  at  last  was 
reduced  to  borrowing  small  sums  to  meet  his  daily 
expenses,  which  had  increased  by  leaps  and  bounds 
since  he  was  living  en  menage.  Then  it  got  to 
his  father’s  ears  how  he  was  living,  as  the  money- 
lender had  to  be  paid ; so  he  came  to  Paris,  made 
a great  scene,  paid  the  money-lender,  and  took  the 
boy  back  with  him  to  the  country  for  a time,  in  the 
hope  that  by  so  doing  he  would  make  him  forget 
his  youthful  infatuation. 

After  a few  months  of  seclusion  he  allowed  him 
to  return  to  the  Quartier  to  resume  his  studies,  as 
he  appeared  to  have  become  quite  reconciled  to 
his  enforced  separation ; but  it  turned  out  that  all 
this  while  the  youth  had  been  keeping  up  a corres- 
pondence with  his  enchantress,  and  no  sooner  was 
he  back  in  Paris  than  they  met  and  he  resumed  his 
interrupted  love-making.  For  some  time  after  this 
he  lived  at  a pace  which  was  bound  to  end  in 
disaster.  She  was  more  exigeante  than  ever. 
Jewellery,  expensive  dinners,  theatres,  excursions, 
were  the  order  of  the  day.  To  satisfy  these  end- 

251 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

less  demands  of  his  maitresse,  he  had  to  obtain 
money  somehow,  by  fair  means  or  foul ; and  as  the 
money-lender  was  chary  of  advancing  him  any 
more  after  the  scene  with  his  father,  he  forged  two 
names  to  two  bills — one  that  of  his  father,  the 
other  that  of  a prominent  tradesman  in  the  town 
he  came  from — probably  in  the  belief  that  when 
they  were  presented  his  father  would  again  pay  up 
rather  than  have  a scandal — for  by  this  time,  it  is 
almost  needless  to  add,  his  finer  senses  were  com- 
pletely blunted,  and,  young  as  he  was,  he  had 
begun  to  take  to  drink,  and  to  mix  with  doubtful 
characters. 

Well,  to  cut  an  unpleasant  story  short,  in  due 
course  the  bills  were  presented,  and  his  distraught 
parent,  thinking  to  save  the  family  honour,  met  the 
one  bearing  his  signature  ; but  the  tradesman  whose 
name  had  also  been  forged  had  no  such  compunc- 
tions, and  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  police, 
and  nothing  could  stop  the  subsequent  legal 
proceedings — ^with  the  result  that  the  embryo 
criminal  was  arrested  and  got  three  years' 
imprisonment. 

What  became  of  him  afterwards,  when  he  had 
completed  his  sentence,  I never  heard  definitely; 
but  there  were  rumours  of  his  having  been  seen 
prowling  at  night  round  the  Boulevard's  exterieurs 
in  a garb  which  left  but  little  doubt  as  to  his  manner 
of  existence.  One  thing,  however,  was  certain, 

and  that  was  that  his  maitresse  threw  him  over  at 

252 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

the  very  first  sign  of  trouble — although  she  was 
actually  responsible  for  his  downfall. 

It  came  to  me  as  somewhat  of  a surprise,  how 
easy  it  apparently  was  for  a young  fellow  to  obtain 
money  whilst  he  was  a student  and  with  only  a 
very  limited  allowance.  Of  course  I had  heard 
that  it  was  possible  if  one  was  in  the  know  to 
obtain  temporary  financial  assistance  without 
having  recourse  to  the  Mont  de  Piete,  where  the 
amount  one  could  obtain  would  only  be  trifling; 
but  to  find  that  merely  on  a sort  of  note  of  hand 
sums  running  into  quite  a respectable  figure  were 
often  handed  over  to  students,  who  were  still  under 
age,  was  to  me  quite  incomprehensible,  and  I 
sometimes  wondered  if  I would  be  trusted  likewise, 
but  fortunately  for  me  I never  had  occasion  to 
ascertain. 

The  Quartier  Latin  in  those  days,  as  I soon 
learned,  was  infested  with  usurers  of  the  worst  type  ; 
and  to  my  knowledge  many  a young  etudiant’s 
career  was  marred  through  his  falling  into  the 
clutches  of  these  human  vampires.  Of  course  this 
state  of  affairs  may  and  probably  does  exist  to  this 
day,  but  I am  only  referring  to  my  own  time.  I 
heard  of  many  cases  which  would  have  been  almost 
incredible  had  I not  personally  known  of  their 
absolute  truth.  The  method  with  which  these 
financiers  carried  out  their  operations  was  quite 
remarkable  at  times  in  its  ingenuity,  and  no  ex- 
pense apparently  was  spared  in  order  to  obtain 

253 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

exact  information  as  to  the  means  of  the  parents 
or  guardians  of  the  prospective  victims.  Once  this 
was  obtained  and  verified  carefully,  it  was  merely 
a question  of  time  when  the  fly  would  walk  into 
the  parlour  of  the  spider.  A mistake  was  seldom 
made.  In  the  Rue  Monsieur  le  Prince,  Rue 
Cujas,  and  the  Rue  St  Jacques  especially,  were 
always  to  be  found  obliging  gentlemen  who  would 
advance  money  at  any  moment  on  note  of  hand 
only — ^without  security,  as  it  appeared  to  the  guile- 
less youth  who  was  in  temporary  need  of  assist- 
ance. 

At  all  the  big  cafes  there  were  agents  of  these 
money-lenders  who  worked  on  commission,  and 
who  therefore  made  it  their  daily  business  to  ascer- 
tain the  names  of  those  students  who  were  going 
the  pace.  Not  infrequently  these  commission 
agents  were  women,  and  who  therefore  had  a better 
chance  of  knowing  what  was  going  on  than  a man 
would  have,  as  it  was  a comparitively  easy  matter 
for  a woman  to  make  friends  with  the  amie  of  the 
victim.  The  cabinets  de  toilette  at  the  different 
restaurants  were  a favourite  hunting-ground  of 
these  harpies,  as  the  attendant  generally  knew  all 
that  was  going  on  in  the  Quartier.  If  such  and 
such  a girl’s  friend  was  known  to  be  hard-up,  in 
spite  of  his  having  a good  allowance  from  home, 
then  it  was  only  a question  of  how  much  his  father 
would  be  good  for  if  the  son  could  be  induced  to 
start  borrowing.  Little  did  these  happy-go-lucky 

254 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

youths  guess  how  much  was  already  known  of  their 
affairs  when  they  eventually  made  their  way  to  the 
bureau  of  one  of  these  money-lenders. 

In  France  there  is  a legal  limit  to  the  amount 
oi  interest  that  can  be  charged,  but  this  could  be 
easily  overcome ; as,  for  instance,  if  a young  man 
was  suddenly  pressed,  say  for  a thousand  francs, 
what  was  there  to  prevent  him  out  of  pure  grati- 
tude for  being  helped  out  of  his  difficulties  from 
giving  a bill  for  fifteen  hundred  francs — payable 
on  a certain  date  ? On  the  bill  there  would  be  no 
mention  of  the  amount  advanced,  but  merely  what 
he  owed.  The  odd  five  hundred  francs  might 
represent  fifty  per  cent  or  more,  but  could  not  be 
disputed ; he  acknowledged  owing  a certain 
amount,  that  settled  it. 

As  I have  said,  the  patience  and  ingenuity  dis- 
played by  the  usurers  and  their  agents  were  often 
quite  remarkable — and  frequently  quite  well  acted. 
I heard  of  one  case  of  a young  fellow,  whose  family 
was  very  rich,  getting  hard  up.  He  had  no 
maitresse  attitree  through  whom  he  could  be  in- 
duced to  go  to  a money-lender,  so  one  of  the 
prettiest  girls  of  the  Boulevard  St  Michel  was  got 
at,  and  eventually  worked  for  one  of  them.  It 
took  some  time  to  bring  off  the  coup,  but  the  quarry 
was  worth  it,  and  it  was  done  this  way.  She  was 
clever  enough  to  play  up  to  him  and  get  him  to 
take  her  about  a good  deal;  he  was  a generous, 
but  extremely  vain  young  fool,  and  she  acted  her 

255 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

part  so  well  that  he  really  believed  he  had  found 
someone  at  last  who  loved  him.  Then  at  lencrth 
came  the  eventful  day.  She  arrived  at  his  rooms 
in  great  trouble.  She  must  have  a certain  sum  by 
a certain  hour  to  save  her  favourite  brother  who 
had  done  something  foolish  and  would  be  arrested 
and  go  to  prison  if  the  money  was  not  forthcoming. 
What  could  she  do  ? She  had  not  got  it,  so  she 
had  of  course  thought  of  her  petit  ami ; he  would 
help  her  out  of  her  great  trouble. 

How  could  the  ami,  as  a gentleman,  avoid  help- 
ing her,  after  the  happy  times  they  had  spent  to- 
gether ; but  he  was  not  in  a position  at  the  moment 
to  do  what  she  asked,  however  much  he  wanted 
to.  He  could  not  write  home  for  the  money  as  he 
had  already  overdrawn  his  allowance ; how  could 
he  get  the  sum  she  required  ? 

Had  he  no  friend  who  would  oblige  him?  she 
would  ask — knowing  very  well  he  had  not.  No, 
he  knew  of  no  one.  Then  a sudden  inspiration 
came  to  her — she  remembered  that  one  of  her 
friends  had  also  an  ami  who  suddenly  wanted  a few 
hundred  francs;  and  he  was  told  of  a gentleman 
who  took  a great  interest  in  students  who  would 
let  him  have  them  if  he  was  satisfied  he  was  a man 
of  honour,  and  he  got  the  money  quite  easily  of 
course,  and  paid  it  back  when  his  allowance  came. 
She  would  go  and  see  her  friend  at  once,  and  find 
out  the  name  and  address  of  this  gentleman ; and 

perhaps  he  would  do  the  same  this  time  also. 

256 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

What  could  the  victim  do  but  consent  to  do  his 
petite  amie  a good  turn ; and  shortly  after  he  was 
introduced  to  a very  affable  gentleman  who  was 
only  too  delighted  to  come  to  his  assistance,  and 
had  put  his  coveted  signature  to  a piece  of  paper 
which  was  but  the  forerunner  of  many  more  that 
were  eventually  taken  up  by  his  father,  as  had  been 
conjectured  would  be  the  case.  All  this  would 
seem  a very  roundabout  method  of  getting  hold  of 
young  spendthrifts,  were  it  not,  as  I have  pointed 
out,  that  in  France  it  is  only  allowable  by  law  to 
charge  at  a certain  fixed  amount  for  interest.  In 
those  days  I believe  it  was  only  five  per  cent,  but 
at  any  rate  it  was  far  too  small  to  satisfy  a money- 
lender, who  was,  of  course,  taking  a speculative  risk. 

The  great  saving  clause,  however,  in  France 
with  regard  to  all  these  transactions  is  that  borrow- 
ing on  a reversion  “ sur  une  succession  is  abso- 
lutely illegal.  So  whatever  expectations  a young 
6tudiant  might  have,  the  money-lender  could  not 
reckon  on  his  claim  being  settled  out  of  them.  If  he 
chose  to  lend  him  money  on  a bill  it  was  therefore 
with  the  knowledge  that  if  the  father  or  guardian 
or  whoever  supplied  the  allowance  refused  to  settle 
for  the  youth,  he  had  lost  his  money — as  he  had 
no  claim  against  a minor.  It  seems  a pity  that 
such  a law  has  not  existed  in  England,  as  many 
a family  would  have  been  protected  against  the 
misdeeds  of  sons  who,  v-hilst  sowing  their  wild 
oats,”  have  squandered  away  fortunes. 

257 


R 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

It  will  be  noted  that  in  all  these  incidents  it  is 
always  a case  of  cherchez  la  femme;  as  a matter 
of  fact  this  is  one  of  the  chief  characteristics  of 
Bohemian  life  in  Paris,  and  it  is  this  eternal 
feminine  that  gives  an  element  of  romance  to  what 
would  otherwise  often  present  an  unsavoury 
aspect.  In  no  single  instance  that  I can  recall 
which  came  to  my  notice  was  the  usurer  ever  ap- 
proached for  the  purpose  of  raising  funds  for  any- 
thing but  expenses  incurred  for  a petite  femme. 
Gambling  debts  such  as  one  constantly  hears  of  in 
an  English  University  city  were  unknown  in  the 
Quartier  Latin,  or  for  the  matter  of  that  in  Mont- 
martre. Of  course  I only  refer  to  the  class  of 
young  fellows,  students  and  so  forth,  with  whom 
I came  in  contact.  They  had  doubtless  many 
weaknesses,  but  these  were  usually  what  one  would 
expect  in  youth  and  early  manhood,  though  devo- 
tion to  the  fair  sex  was  the  dominating  feature 
always.  Drinking  was  practically  non-existent  in 
my  time,  and  it  is  probably  the  same  to  this  day ; 
for  the  light  beer,  coffee,  and  harmless  aperitifs, 
which  are  part  and  parcel  of  the  daily  life, 
can  scarcely  be  considered  as  indulgence  in 
liquor. 

How  different  all  this  to  the  corresponding 
conditions  of  student  life  in  England — where 
Bohemianism  generally  means  living  in  dreary, 
frowsy  lodgings  with  surroundings  of  such  deadly 
monotony  that  one  is  forced  to  find  relaxation  in 

258 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

the  only  direction  that  presents  itself ; since  there 
is  no  pleasant  cafe  life,  and  one  cannot  always 
afford  a club — namely,  the  saloon  bar,  a public 
billiard-room,  r,  worst  of  all,  in  the  card-playing 
which  is  the  great  curse  of  English  student  life. 


259 


CONCLUSION 


Bohemian  life  in  Paris — The  charm  of  the  caf6 — Gradual 
chang^e  in  one’s  tastes — The  chez  soi — Progress  in 
one’s  work — New  friends — Forced  to  return  to  England 
— A final  visit  to  G^rome. 

Bohemian  life  in  Paris,  once  one  begins  to  get  out 
of  the  actual  etudiant  stage,  changes  very  materi- 
ally. It  Is  still  Bohemian,  but  of  a different  type. 
One  can  always  rough  it,  “ needs  must  when  the 
devil  drives,”  but  not  with  the  zest  of  youth  when 
youth  Is  flitting.  In  Paris  it  was  curious  how 
imperceptibly  but  surely  one’s  habits  gradually 
changed,  as  one  progressed  in  one’s  work.  There 
seemed  to  be  less  time  and  inclination  for  the 
irresponsible  methods  which  were  so  characteristic 
of  the  early  days  of  one’s  atelier  life.  Even  in 
one’s  pleasures  there  was  a certain  commencement 
of  sedateness ; boisterous  practical  joking  was 
losing  its  attraction.  There  was  a desire  to 
associate  with  men  of  more  mature  years  and  make 
new  friends. 

Cafe  life  in  Paris  never  loses  its  charm  for  the 
artist ; I mean,  of  course,  for  those  who  have  had 

much  experience  of  it,  possibly  because  from  being 

260 


“tIIKSK  AKRIVKS,  WHO  I\  TIIKIU  TIME  WERE  AMOXC.ST  THE  MOST 
DEVIL-MAY-CARE  SPIRITS  OE  THE  OUARTIER.” 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

forced  to  practically  live  in  cafes  they  become 
a sort  of  home  for  the  lonely  bachelor — a home 
where  he  can  be  alone  or  with  company  as  he 
pleases.  But  after  a time  this  life  begins  to 
appear  a very  empty  sort  of  existence,  and  one  has 
a feeling  that  a chez  soi  of  one’s  own  would  be 
agreeable — a place  where  one  can  work  and 
write  one’s  letters  in  quiet  privacy,  surrounded  by 
one’s  own  pet  comforts.  This  is  the  commence- 
ment of  the  second  stage  of  Bohemian  life  in  Paris 
— and  I was  now  entering  it. 

Although  still  quite  young  I recollect  I had  a 
feeling  akin  to  admiration  for  men  I had  worked 
with  at  the  Ecole  who  now  had  studios  of  their 
own,  and  who  were  starting  portraits  or  big  pictures 
for  the  Salon.  These  arrives,  who  in  their  time 
were  amongst  the  most  devil-may-care  spirits  of 
the  Quartier — always  ready  for  the  most  outrage- 
ous blagues  and  boyish  adventures — had  become 
serious  painters  now  their  Ecole  days  were  past. 
It  appeared  to  me  as  almost  remarkable  that  so 
short  a time  could  have  made  so  great  a difference. 
Many  indeed  had  been  seen  wearing  tall  hats  and 
clean  collars.  Their  example  was  contagious,  and 
I determined  to  try  what  I could  do  also  apart 
from  the  hats  and  the  collars. 

I had  spent  four  happy  years  in  Paris  studying, 
and  I felt  that  it  was  time  I should  decide  how 
best  to  turn  the  knowledge  I had  acquired  to  good 

account  if  possible.  To  remain  in  Paris  per- 

261 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

manently  and  endeavour  to  continue  to  live  on  my 
exiguous  income,  as  I had  hitherto  done,  tempted 
me  greatly ; but  against  this  there  was  the  feeling 
that  what  was  possible  as  a student  would  no  longer 
be  so  when  one  started  attempting  to  make  one's 
way  seriously. 

My  friend  and  I had  only  taken  our  studio  in 
the  Passage  Lathuile  for  a year,  and  our  time  was 
now  up;  and  he  was  going  to  live  away  in  the 
country,  so  my  undecided  state  of  mind  will  be  the 
more  understood.  There  is  an  old  whist  axiom, 
“ when  in  doubt  play  trumps,"  and  trumps  for  me 
meant  Paris,  for  did  I not  practically  owe  my  Art 
training  to  Paris  And  Paris  I should  have  de- 
cided on  had  not  the  Fates  decided  otherwise. 
Through  the  failure  of  a big  bank  I found  myself 
suddenly  placed  in  such  bad  circumstances  that 
I had  no  option  but  to  give  up  all  idea  of  remaining 
in  France.  To  return  to  London  and  endeavour 
to  make  a living  out  of  my  brush  or  pencil  was 
the  only  course  open  to  me,  for  I felt  that  the 
chances  of  doing  so  were  better  there  than  in  Paris. 

It  was  with  no  slight  feeling  of  regret  therefore 
that  I had  come  to  the  decision,  but  stern  necessity 
compelled  it. 

I went  and  bid  Gerome  “ good-bye,"  and  told 
him  why  I was  leaving  Paris.  He  was  sympathv 
itself,  and  we  had  quite  a long  talk  together ; whilst 
to  my  delight  he  presented  me  with  a parting 
souvenir  in  the  shape  of  an  autographed  photo- 


MY  BOHEMIAN  DAYS  IN  PARIS 

gravure  of  one  of  his  most  famous  pictures,  which 
I treasure  amongst  my  most  valued  possessions, 
together  with  letters  of  introduction  to  two  of  his 
friends  in  London — Sir  Frederick  Leighton  and 
John  Everett  Millais.  As  I made  my  way 
down  from  the  studio,  the  memory  of  that  day 
when,  as  a raw  student,  I had  gone  up  there  with 
Monsieur  Thomas,  full  of  trepidation  as  to  the 
result  of  my  visit,  flashed  through  my  mind.  How 
much  had  happened  during  those  four  years,  yet 
how  quickly  they  had  slipped  away.  I had,  how- 
ever, the  consciousness  that  if  I had  played  hard 
I had  also  worked  hard ; and  that  these  years  had 
therefore  not  been  misspent. 

As  I closed  the  porte  cochere  behind  me  and 
found  myself  again  on  the  familiar  Boulevard,  I 
felt  a lump  in  my  throat,  for  I realised  that  my 
Bohemian  days  as  a student  in  Paris  were  ended. 


263 


INDEX 


A 

ABBAYE  DE  TH^LfeME,  THE, 
II7 

Absconding  American,  1Q3 
Adventure,  an  unpleasant,  61 
Allais,  Alphonse,  125 
American  student,  my  quarrel 
with,  46 

Antique,  studying  in  the,  20 
Arlequins,  56 
“ Arrives,”  24,  261 
Artist,  an  American  at  Mar- 
lotte.  I go 

Artists’  colony  in  Montmartre, 
120 

Atelier,  my  entree  to,  40; 
practical  jokes  in,  47 


B 

Bal  des  Quatz  Arts,  156; 
amazing  indecency  at,  162; 
the  slave-dealer  at,  166;  an 
arrest  in  the  morning,  168 
B^noit^  Rue  St,  little  restaur- 
ant in,  18 

Bet,  an  amusing,  113 
Billiards,  playing  for  a pair 
of  trousers,  200 
Bohemianism  in  those  days  in 
Montmartre,  105  ; a mystery 
of,  105 ; funny  incident  in, 
106;  some  strange  examples 
of  Bohemianism  in,  230 
Bompard,  47 
Bonaparte,  Rue,  ii 
Brasseries  and  cafds  in  Mont- 
martre, iig;  impressions  of 
one,  I IQ 

265 


Br^da,  Rue,  a hot-bed  of  vice, 
119 

Buci,  Rue  de,  artists  rendez- 
vous in,  17 
Buland,  47 
BuUier  bd,  67 


C 

Cabanel,  20 
Ca.f6  life  in  Paris,  260 
Caran  d’Ache,  125 
Caricature  of  an  American, 
191 

Carrier-Belleuse,  q6 
Chabot,  colour  merchant,  50 
Chairs,  amusing  jeu  d’esprit, 
140 

Chartran,  96 

Chat  Noir,  Cabaret  du,  lai  ; 
the  early  reunions  at,  trans- 
formation of,  12 1 ; its  re- 
moval, 122;  its  new  habita- 
tion, 124;  its  distinguished 
habitues,  125  ; imitation  Chat 
Noirs  125 

Cherchez  la  femme,  258 
“ Chinois  sur  le  zinc,”  a,  219 
Child,  a dead,  pathetic  inci- 
dent, 240 
Ciceri,  178 

Clichy,  Place,  141  ; Avenue  de, 
Cocottes,  1 19 

Concierges,  different  types  of, 

14 

Cold  cream,  an  amusing  in- 
cident, 129 


INDEX 


Coolness  of  the  Parisian, 
amusing  incident,  152 
Cormon,  q6 

Corv^es,  irksome  nature  of, 
45 

Cours  Yvon,  22 
D 

D’Ange,  Baronne,  84 
D’Isly,  H6tel,  in  the  Rue 
Jacob,  83 

Dagnan-Bouveret,  47 
Degas,  g6 

Dejeuner,  favourite  places  for, 
in  the  Quartier,  54 
Dejeuners,  cheap,  24 
Delmet,  125 

Divan  Japonais  in  Rue  Lepic, 
218 

Donnay,  Maurice,  125 
Door,  the  communicating,  85 
Dowdeswell,  Walter,  07 
Drinking,  258^ 

Duel  with  paint-brushes,  45 ; 

by  arrangement,  227 
Dupray,  96 

E 

ficoLE  DES  Beaux  Arts,  16 
£lys6e  Montmartre  117 
Enfant  Prodigue,  r.  125 
English  dancers,  at  the  Folies 
Berg^res,  loi 

English  girl,  joke  on,  102 
Epopee,  r,  125 
Eugenie,  88 ; rendezvous 
with,  89 

F 

Fair  Neighbour,  my,  22 
Faux  manages,  149 
Florist,  the,  at  Montigny,  192 
Fontainebleau,  forest  of,  173; 
palace  of,  194;  lost  in,  195; 
joke  on  artist  in  caf6,  197 
Fontaine  St  Georges,  Rue,  my 
apartment  in,  139 
Fontenay  aux  Roses,  76 
Food,  the,  in  H6tel  Marlotte, 


Frail  sisterhood,  iig 
Frochot,  Rue,  lady  living  in. 

Furniture,  buying,  84,  140 

G 

Gambling  debts,  258 
Gargon  pianist,  219 
Gare  St  Lazare,  unusual 
scene  in,  213 

G6rome,  J.  L.,  6,  20^  51  ; his 
popularity,  52 ; his  kindly 
nature,  53,  96,  262 
Gervex,  96 

Gorge  aux  Loups,  love-mak- 
ing in,  185 
Goupil,  old,  96 
Goiiter,  the,  24 

H 

Harrison,  47 
Helleu,  47 
“ Her,^’  183 
Humbert,  96 

I 

Inconnue.  my  lovely,  188 
Interest,  legal  limit  to,  in 
France,  255,  257 

J 

Jacob,  Rue,  50 
Jealous  woman,  a,  241 
Jephson,  Charlie,  97,  123 
Jeu  au  bouchon,  le,  on  bil- 
liard-table, 175 
Journey,  an  eventful,  208 
Jouy,  Jules,  125 
Julians,  58,  59 

L 

La  Belle  Laure;  her  tragic 
end,  98 

La  Gandara,  47 
La  Grande  Louise,  98 
La  Grenouillere,  76 
La  Sagatore,  98 
La  Source,  caf6  de  la,  67 


INDEX 


La  Thangua,  47 
Laval,  Rue  de,  125 
Lehmann,  20 

Leighton,  Sir  Frederick,  263 
Liaisons  ” as  compared  with 
“collages,”  15 1 
Lion,  d’Or,  the,  126 
Lion,  lady  and  the,  131 
“ Logements  de  gargon,”  13 
Louis,  looking  for  one,  66 
Louvre,  copying  at,  57 
Love,  my  first  affair,  73 
Lyon,  Gare  de,  adventure  on 
way  to,  204 

M 

MacNab,  125 
Maitresses,  149 
Marlotte,  171 ; inn  at,  172,  174, 

175 

Married  woman  and  young 
student,  250 
Masse,  the,  42 
Massier,  the,  42 
Masson,  A.,  125 
Meeting,  an  unexpected,  235 
Memory,  a lapse  of,  154 
Messier,  Monsieur,  his  house 
at  Auteuil,  3 
Meudon,  75 
Militaire,  the  pas,  63 
Military  discipline,  214 
Millais,  John  Everett,  263 
Minor,  no  claim  against,  257 
Models,  48,  q8,  ioi,  120,  144, 
148,  151,  15,3 

Money-lenders  agents,  254 
Mont  de  Piete,  the,  253 
Montigny,  171,  179 
Montmartre,  caf6s  in,  no,  216 
Moret,  a visit  to,  203,  214 
Moulin  de  la  Galette,  117; 

dancing  at,  118 
Mouloya,  125 

Music,  advent  of,  in  Mont- 
martre, 217 
Musician,  a born,  220 

N 

New-comir,  the,  at  Mar- 
lotte, 180 

267 


Night,  first  in  new  room,  85 
Notre  Dame  de  Lorette, 

Quartier  de,  iig 
Nouveau,  ragging  the,  43 
Nouvelle  Athenes,  the,  no 

O 

Omnibus,  amateur  conjurer 

IN,  68 

Ouvrieres  petites,  60 
P 

Painters,  open-air,  172 
Panels,  movable  in  the  hotel 
at  Marlotte,  173 
Pantheon,  the  caf^  of,  67 
Passage  Lathuille,  141 ; my 
study  in,  142 

“ Patron,”  the,  his  visits  to 
atelier,  50 

Penne,  O.  de,  171,  176,  183, 

ig2 

“Petit  rentier,”  gi 
Petit  vin  at  Marlotte,  174 
Picnic,  impromptu,  43 
Picture,  my  first  sale  of,  91 
Pille,  125 

Place  Blanche,  caf^  on ; funny 
incident  at,  in 
Place  Pigalle,  life  in,  112 
Police,  Prefecture  de,  103; 

Commissaire  of,  224 
Portrait,  my  first  commission, 
Q2 

Portraiture,  my  earliest  effort 
at,  51 

“ Poseurs,”  25 

Practical  joking  at  Auteuil, 
27 

Prince  Imperial,  my  resem- 
blance to,  31 

Q 

Quartier  Latin,  i i ; rough- 
and-ready  manners  of,  S5> 
60 

R 

Rameau,  Jean,  laf 
“Rapins,”  24 


INDEX 


Rat  Mort,  the  caf^  of,  112 
Rent  of  room,  84 
Restaurant,  eccentric,  56 
Reuilly,  Rue  de,  the  factory 
in,  3,  128 

Reversion,  borrowing  on, 
illegal,  257 
Riviere,  Henri,  125 
Robinson,  75 

Rochefoucauld,  la,  aphorism 
of,  150;  caf^  de  la,  gs ; 
habitues  of,  g6 ; end  of,  104 
Rochefoucauld,  Rue  de  la,  83 
Rose,  naa  petite  amie,  73 ; 
excursions  with,  75,  76 ; 

joke  on,  78;  her  last  letter, 
81 

S 

St  John’s  wood,  as  com- 
pared WITH  Montmartre, 
223 

St  Michel,  Boulevard,  60 
Saint  Antoine,  La  tentation 
de,  125 

Salis,  Rodolphe,  12 1 
Salon,  sending  in  to,  130 
“ Saved,”  233 
Seine,  Rue  de,  hotel  in,  14 
Shrimps,  funny  incident,  77 
Smoking  in  carriages  on 
French  railways,  208;  un- 
pleasantness in,  21 1 
Solomon  J.  Solomon,  47 
Soufflet,  the,  67 
Spider  and  the  fly,  254 
Stanhope  Forbes,  47 
Stott,  William,  of  Oldham,  17 
Streets,  joking  in,  63,  64,  65, 
66,  6g 

Student  life  in  England,  258 
Students,  types  of,  24,  25,  26 
Studio  district,  120 
Studio,  my,  in  Passage  La- 
thuille,  142 ; impromptu 
dejeuners  in,  143 
Sundays  en  famille,  27 
Supper,  an  impromptu,  in 
studio,  222 

Suresnes,  a friture  at,  76 
Suret6,  Inspector  of  the,  ig3 
Swan,  47 


T 

TAPISSifeRE,  A,  33 
Thackeray,  54 

Theatre  des  Italiens,  curious 
incident  at,  30 
Thirions,  54 

Thomas,  Alexandre,  3,  34 
Thomas,  Isidore,  3,  32,  127; 

painting  his  portrait,  134 
Thomas,  Madame,  34 
Treasure,  the  hidden,  233 
Tripp,  Richard,  g7 
Trudaine,  Avenue,  my  little 
friend  in,  168 

U 

Usurers  of  the  Qu artier 
Latin,  253 
Uzfes,  Rue  d’,  58,  5g 

V 

Vachette,  caf£,  67 
“Velocipede  IV.,”  my  nick- 
name, 47 

Ventriloquism,  my  effort  at, 
and  its  result,  224,  225 
“Vernissage,”  the,  at  the 
Salon,  133;  looking  for 
one’s  pictures,  135 ; lunch 
at  Ledoyens,  137 
Versailles,  big  fete  at,  32 
Visconti,  Rue,  lodgings  in,  12 
Vivienne,  Rue,  restaurant  in, 


Waiter,  joke  on.  57 
Walrus,  a human,  igo 
Waxworks,  joke  in,  70 
Whistler,  g6 

Wide  World  Magaaine, 
story  from,  ig3 
Willette,  125 

Work,  early  hours  of,  in 
atelier,  4g 
Wolff,  Albert,  g6 

Y 

Yvon,  Adolphe,  4 


THE  NORTHUMBERLAND  PRESS,  THORNTON  STREET,  NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE 


s 


